Whirlyball

maybe not a rose

but flower, somewhat silly

springs up through concrete

In the depths of Aurora. In between dilapidated motels with vacancy signs and massage parlors open late. Nestled cozy in the midst of casinos, strip-clubs, and porn-stores—there is a tradition. National Champions more years than not, going back to the late ‘80’s. Whirlyball. Lacrosse in bumper-cars. The sport of kings. Home of birthday parties, skeeball, and bottomless fountain drink.

folks eight to eighty

celebrate each successive year

well in bumper cars

A cross-eyed girl with dimple piercings explained rules to disinterested half-drunk and out-of-shape athletes making clever comments. And then the ball was in play. And some were stuck in corners. Others were going in circles continuously. Most went backwards when they wanted to go forwards. The confusion was narrated by a bored but sarcastic Whirlyball employee. Every mistake witnessed by friends eating cake, pointing through glass, and laughing. Always laughing.

humiliation

noted by those dear to us

taunts can be loving?

When the cars went where they were supposed to, and shots began to go in the general right direction: dormant competition was revived. Get that weak shit out of here! That’s what I’m talking about—Payton to Kemp! We must protect this house! Fists pumped. Tongues wagged. Funfetti cake was consumed. This was how birthdays were meant to be celebrated.

late twenties welcomes

another willing or no

so. . . Happy Birthday!!