In Colma, California, near the Super Bowl this year,
there are no vendors circulating, selling cups of beer.
For Colma is a city that is made of cenotaphs;
where cheerleaders are cheerless and there’s no one ever laughs.
The only downhill runner is grim Death, who hits the hole
with averages much better than at any Super Bowl.
If you feel like passing, you might try Hail Mary, son;
but you’ll be tackling daisies by the setting of the sun.
Life is but a football game, and Colma a reminder
that all our field goals are in vain, despite the best Sidewinder . . .