It was no miracle, not anymore,
Ode to an insane, circus, Super Bowl catch
Jermaine Kearse’s Super Bowl catch was worthy of poetry.
But Providence, simply, signaled by Kearse.
Mere settling of dues, completing the chore,
The Hawks were mere steps from quenching their thirst.
They stole their drink off Green Bay a fortnight
’ere. It seemed theirs by right when announcers screamed
“Unreal! A catch by Kearse off the carom!”
Kearse was no hero, he proferred no might,
He fell a canvas to the ball that dreamed
Flight is heedless, life was best in the womb.
As if that would be a weirder thing than
The belief held by an infinite score
Of skeptics, jerks, and an unjaded fan
For a blip, but perchance forevermore
Godly forces exist in ephem’ry
We feel, somehow, only as collective
As at church, or when a ball flies dozens
Of yards to gild the thighs and touch the feet
And anoint a man, stressing the octave
’fore the last eighth that makes weep the heathens.
Lo! What a note that roaring should have been!
But no, felic’ty’s the work of mortals.
What a quake the Beast’ve made should they’d seen
Fate as an illusion built, not the false
World constructed of success and fervor.
The sure man resigned to humility,
That limp, deflated specter of hubris.
“There is no fate,” he realized. “Error
It was to believe in our own piety.
Confused we were ‘twixt pride and godliness.“
(Photo: Mark J. Rebilas-USA TODAY Sports)
The Hawks were free of delusion, but no
More quenched. Now free and unfettered to roam
But into what dark strange futures they go
Victims of chance or a Kearse in the gloam.
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