The dunk has its day as the funk,
Lebron does the damage like a cavalier.
The pool is cool except for an orb of fire,
Making tan marks around speedos.
And all the way in India, the agricultural heaves
Make the day for the cricket-mad Gujarat boys.
And I’m surfing the vast array of sports channels
The bum stuck to a fault of curvy cushion
The remote control my surfboard
As I caress the changing sports channels
Until it is all around me like a hollow barrel,
From fist-pumping action to the roar of spectators.
I’m travelling inside my own green room
My boxers are my trusted beach shorts.
Fetch length and wind speed collude in force,
As pixels go ‘on and off’ like an Icarus wave.
I’m in danger of being wiped out
To my own myopic indecision,
As my pupils, blink in compulsion,
Maddened by my own mortality
To couch-potato blight.