Star Dusk Mask
August 3, 2009, by Homme De Sept-Iles
there are big goalies and small
virtual keepers and mythic
this one is a keeper
and a keeper
he’s a ten and a bottle of milk
he ambles in on a sunshine shadow
of a day (and late besides)
always a word of humour for the ladies
a smart slap for the gents
and a word of sympathy for the weak
on this cowboy afternoon
he is more gumshoe than gant
less carefree than frank
and not Mahovlich
no twenty-seven lessons in practice
it’s the offseason and he’s been reading
print and goalies and springs and summers
and wings and things
there’s been a lotto-lotto change
he wants a wine and he wants a chat
he settles his light bulb black shirt body
skinny til his waist
onto my stool
the pool
behind him not too spaced
what’s a goalie to do in the hot summer sun
when there’s only girls and dust
he sighs
there’s just no ice and only talkers for miles
i know my glove hand is fine
my weight’s good
i have the charm, the coastline smile
i bin livin’ it clean
but the leaders are gone
and the river’s getting tensile
it’s up to me now
he sighs and i pour him another
big but wiry, smile and cagey
they call him a thoroughbred
but i think he’d rather have been in a band
he’s their goalie now and whatever summer
can teach him
won’t learn him what the winter war
of his first bareback snow blaze race
will
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