Zamboni Driver’s Lament

 i know hate, its line-
mates. believe me. you kids have, i’m sure, 
wasted—all early morning anxious 
and weak-ankled—their first impatient 
shuffle-kicks and curses on me. no cage 
contains a stare that well. and despite 
my perch, i too know damage: precise, 
zeroed-in maps of possession and loss,
 traceries
step-chiselled into moments that loop 
around and into—through and across—
each, the other. at my worst, i am 
my own recurring dream, forever turning 
a corner. and because i am always, 
when push comes to shove, behind glass
—seated, and away—i’ve become a fan of 
jealousy, can pick him out in the looping 
confusion of warm-ups. i have his sweater 
hanging somewhere on my wall, his cards 
tucked in a box under my bed.indulge
me. tell me: can you understand what it is 
to be something most others only wait, 
grudgingly, through; endure?i can and 
do, can and do. i am a common 
cold, the advertisements that linger too
 long
before a feature. and though you 
may never see this, the lights—i can
 assure
you—go down each night; the
 scoreboard’s
bulbs snap and flicker, then die. but the ice, 
it seems, will always be there: a constant
 wound
to dress, a scar i run myself along and
 over.