The Best is the Enemy of the Good

I Wish Tom Brady …

the privilege of standing in front

of the dairy case at Dollar General

reaching for the Parkay instead of

Land O Lakes, the honor of looking

at himself in a bathroom mirror,

yellowed teeth, a bald head, sagging

jowls, the blessedness of his belly

jiggling as he runs to a thankless

job as assistant manager where

he is required to wear a stupid hat.

I wish him my laziness, I wish him

your fear, I wish him the salvation

of failure we all know in our bones.

I wish him lost faith, sadness, despair,

hypochondria, boils, pestilence,

a woman at a bar staring past him

as he asks her to dance, some pompous

baby-faced asset manager yelling

at him to get lost, get a life, drop dead.

And then I wish him a surfing lesson

in the hereafter with the angelic

Richard Byrd, straddling a Dewey Weber,

learning to read the rolling swells

from a sweet and kind and patient man

who knows how to walk on water,

who would guide him into one sacred

barrel after another, further and farther

from his ghastly fate as an earthbound

hero, the soul sucking ambition

that comes with the dumb luck

of a strong arm, a handsome puss,

millions of adoring fans, the utter

impoverishment of spirit that follows

beefy blockers into a neck-snapping

horse collar for anyone who dreams

of being Tom Brady. Even Tom Brady.

–SL, Hatteras Island, NC, August 2023