Ford Field Fireball
By Nick Viau
Two dead soldiers prone
atop the toilet paper,
in a shitter stall.
Shooters, both of them.
Snuck past stadium guards,
in forbidden areas.
Frisking thighs and hips—
never the genitals.
Not in Detroit.
Violated
by cinnamon whiskey.
A slow burning trickle,
at half time.
Another drunk
pounds dents in fresh aluminum.
Hinges rattling on the bolts.
His “teeth are floating”
and mine “will be soon”.
He promises.
But the nectar burns hot
on bleeding gums.
Vanilla notes tickle the tongue.
A hint of regret.
Reinforcements inbound.
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