The Poet Persuades His Wife to Go to a Bruins Game

Whose rink this is I think I know,

He makes his home in Buffalo;

He will not see me stopping here

He stays up North—he must like snow.

My little wife must think it ####

To sit and watch me drink my beer.

I stare out at the frozen lake

I slowly sip and rarely cheer.

She gives her string of pearls a shake

To ask if there is some mistake

The only other sound’s the sweep

An odd-man rush on Raycroft makes.

The playoffs end, I grimly weep.

We two descend from bleachers steep.

She says next time please don’t ask me

Or watch at home on our TV.

Copyright 2005, Con Chapman