Around the hour of three or four
on a Sunday afternoon
I scampered through the kitchen door
grabbed the ice cream and a spoon

kicked up my feet to sit a spell
turned on the football game
booed and hissed a cursive yell
as the home crowd did the same

the ball was fumbled then recovered
by the bulky brute linebacker
who grabbed the ball and tightly hovered
like a mad cowhide-attacker

I'd had enough and couldn't bear
another clumsy play
found my spoon beneath my chair
threw the ice cream box away

brought out the dish from the calling fridge
my mood now cross and petty
smelled the sauce that formed a creamy ridge
over piles of thin spaghetti

and then it came, an announcer's scream
a thunderous, gargantuan roar
"Touchdown!" rally for our home team
as the pasta dish hit the floor
***