Nights With The Good Ol' Sport Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

There is an anarchy
Every after dismissal
As I am, juxtaposed to a lion,
Losing diminutive fragments of life,
And enter a deathly trance.

Good ol’ sport
I told him,
And he laughed.
And we were such
Crazed fools

Drinking the blood
Out of the cicadas
Lips chaffed
Fissured
Parted by slender
Deaths.

Until
Transported into a rancid
Room of narrow ambiguity.
There
We would battle the bores,
The stereotypes,
The machinism of the clocks.

Good ol’ sport, still, friend.
At times,
I die first,
Other times he dies
Before I
But in this process
Of death meets
More death
Or maybe so
Life meets death
Or whatever
Pre-empted acquaintance
There is,

We were
Good old sports
Refined so well
And intricate
As if sculpted
By the
Reaper scythes.