by William Greenway
What you notice first when you move
here is houses boarded like bandaged heads,
the ice-bound ships of empty steel mills,
old people sliding,
rusted cars spinning,
that packs and blackens behind wheels,
drops and lies in the road
like dead stars.
Next Sunday the Steelers play the Browns
but no one will watch—
we don’t give one hundred and ten percent,
we don’t take one game at a time.
We put on our pants one leg at a time,
and we sit on the bed to do it.
We’re not going to rally
or regain the momentum.
Our sport is getting through the day,
the way in Scotland they run in only
jogging shoes up “fells,” then back down
on paths of stones like bowling balls.
They say, we know this hill
can break bones.
We want to see if it will.