We sat, legs spread,
on the glass-cracked hatch-backed beat-up cruiser
with fingers numb from cold beer bottles,

and billows of smoke swelled in the air
like nuclear mushroom clouds
but quiet.

And the voice of the crowd
echoed back to us in vacant ululations
from very far away

and what did the score matter anyway
when the sun valiantly battled the autumn breeze
and won?

And my hair whipped back in fire-tongues
and we held up our arms to embrace the sun
and we were champions.