Deflate Gate
By: Tom Brady

When it comes to football
it’s all about the ball
it’s got nothing to do with skill
or giving our fans a thrill

When I cozy up behind the hiker
and give the call to begin the game
he snaps the ball into my hands
as the crowd screams from the stands

Then I make my famous moves
to the left, maybe right, maybe back
either to pass the ball or, to
hand it off to a running back

Where the ball goes, nobody knows
just me – in my moment of glory
whether the ball is soft or hard
I can’t be bothered or give a worry

Seems strange to me about the air  
inside the ball – being such a big crime
they check the pressure when we start
why not each quarter, or, during half time

Whether a ball is soft or hard at game’s end
no difference to me or any team mate
we’re here to play our best on game day
not to deflate ***** or litigate

I run the back roads
to our hill
and stare at Boston
in the distance

I wish you
were that close,
close enough to see
so I know you're there

The air was chill and darkness fell as bells rang and the rabble gathered.
A British sentry had struck a lad; some said his jaw was shattered.
Some four hundred Bostonians were milling about his station.
Eight Redcoats, each with rifle cocked, tried to defuse the situation.
The crowd was in an ugly mood; they would not let this slide.
The soldiers were pelted with rocks and snow, but as yet no one had died.
Private Montgomery was knocked down And muttered “**** you, Fire.”
He discharged his weapon into the ground, and that shot provoked their ire.
Captain Preston never issued the command, but a ragged volley was fired.
Eleven colonists were hit, three of them expired.
The crowd in panic then dispersed, and the troop of men retired.
A black man, Crispus Atticus, was among those who had died.
The mood was tense in Boston and those troops were charged and tried.
John Adams won acquittal, he was brilliant in defense.
But the crowd still felt injustice, and there's been no peace since.

If your arms are Boston, than I miss home.

Emily and I share a birthday
the odds of course which, are 1 in 365
I wonder if she would pay it any mind
if I were to relay that fact to her
in time traveling letters

We'd diss the Romantics
in our clinging to things old fashioned
But perhaps in some sort of
airy heaven mystic light
feather backed eunuchs deemed
our mutual yearly markers Holy

We share introversions too
So I know not to peak behind her cloudy veil
when it's my turn to hike the steps
of the colossal celestial mansion  
I'll just listen to see if you have a Boston accent
or send soaring aeroplanes, if you prefer
with fresh ink drops sliding off into sky

Before I go up there, I may ask my sister too
to burn all my poems, delete them also
Wondering when you request'd the same
did you not care 'bout words lost to air?

I'm thinking about you a little bit.
Okay, a lot.
Maybe because your lips were the last to touch mine
(6 days ago) (and counting)
Or maybe because you tried to Skype me from your roof last night.
That was sweet of you.
But also
so very representative
of your lack of  l o g i c  &  r e a s o n.
You worry me.
Did you know that?
Maybe.
Maybe I think about you because you're great at ***.
I'd like that to be the reason.
But it isn't.
Because now when I think about you I don't think about *******.
****.
I think about when you kissed me in that stupid deli.
I think about when you danced with me down Boylston.
And how you always tell me to smile
And how, for some reason, that makes me want to frown.
And how being with you makes me want to tell someone I love them.
But not necessarily you…
And how you inspire me to create things. Anything.
Like stream of consciousness poetry. So thank you.
But then again
This didn't turn out very well, did it?

Boston, land of the Big Dig,
home of tight knit groups who call each other family with no blood relation.
Winter teaches you how to shovel your car out of snow banks with red raw hands and a pizza box. Teaches you balance as you slip and skid your way down city sidewalks laced with ice, black like onyx.
Girls with ******* and short dresses shiver on the T, their puffy white breaths begging for warmth while their counterparts stand snuggled in down jackets zipped up to their nose. Spring brings rain and the snow becomes muddy slush splashing against your car that can never really be clean. But then the flowers come and you forget about the cold as the humidity sinks in like a fat man into his favorite recliner.
The swamp is ever noticeable in Summer as everyone walks in knee high mud, trudging slowly to the Boston Pops.
Fall is perfect. Crisp colors and the sweet smell of apples and pumpkins last for months as cheeks turn rosy and hands find safe harbor in pockets.  
Boston land of men and women not boys and girls
Home of seasons at spectrums end and the only place that will always be home.