Buzzer Beater Poem by John Weber

'It sure smells like
March Madness in here, '
I offer with a grimace, scanning the
room for the cadaver responsible for the
      acrid cloud of aroma
lingering. If I possessed
      a machete, I would
lop my own nose off,
but not to spite my face.

As I wonder how paint still
manages to cling to these long
suffering walls, I step into a
brown bag of sweaty
      debris while the host
does his own adept bit of sleepy
      dribbling, that mighty
roar of a snore punctuating
my discontent with affinity.

I try breathing through
my mouth before grabbing a
longneck, tossing it down like a
game-winning three-pointer with
      no time left on-
the clock, on the wall, that’s it! My
      lips drain a doozy of a lie as
I tear past the beached flesh
of my once dynamic friends.