Paul waits an hour and a half into the football game
to press play on his recording, so he can frustrate
corporate America’s attempts to sell him shit.
He no longer defines his life by wins and losses,
by sports logos, by wearing the in brand name,
by fast food nutrition innuendoes.
Paul counts all of his flagrant white privilege cards,
shuffles them a few times so his finger oils grease them,
then pops them in the cross-cut shredder.
He no longer brags, decides to only point out
any news article that sees fit to record his actions—
so far no ink has been expended on his history.
Paul waits for the snow to cease falling
and the sun to shine and sparkle on the reflective field.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney