Church Boys’ Night of Beer, Fun and Football
On the table, all the buffalo wings left: one.
And the battered wheels of onions
the diameter and color of a grapefruit left: one.
Of the flatbread, the latest craze, baked with pieces
of shredded Romano and Parmesan left: one.
Though its tomato, olive oil and sweet basil dip
long gone into the tummies of the young
fathers of preschoolers. Fear of appearing
gluttonous to each other left this plethora of ones.
“Bonding” what a strange way of putting it,
as if stuck by together by Gorilla glue or black
duct tape binding us into a group in front
of a big screen. Hittites, who now only exist
in others’ accounts and archeological digs, would
use just one word to say hello and goodbye
that translates from their dead language into,