Proverbial Poem by Patti Masterman

Tall, against the fake green grass
With the metal club in his hand;
He's a god
Shrugging good naturedly
At the fawning reporters, jostling at his elbow..

At home, it's business as usual:
She's busy dying, in their bed
Dark-ringed eyes more hollow
Lost in a morphine torpor, unsure
Where she is anymore
Unsure of everything but the outcome
He wishes now they hadn't told her
The kids eyes, filled with pain
The lawyers are circling again
With the gold seekers close behind-
Everyone wants a piece of him now
He's the pot at the end of the rainbow..

But back on the green
Skies are blue, and money is king
Though sometimes he has to wish
The club would become an expedient lightning rod
Just for a few microseconds
Because suddenly the game seems
To be getting so lame.