Lyrics:

Jean Believeau's welcome any time
at the outdoor rink
in the park
just across from my house
for morning hockey under blue skies this winter.
Birds wheeling overhead
Russian temperatures
lousy to no gear.
I'm The Goalie Who Lives Across The Street.

Kids play with smokes handing out
of their mouths;
beautiful puck hogs
with incredible tricks.
They are so easily fatigued,
they take a break after every rush.
Old-timers heckle:
"Hey, Jim Carrol. Pass the puck."
They don't get it.

No literary pretentions allowed.
Two minutes for
"I saw his blood,
a billowing crimson cloud
against the milk while ice."
That's an infraction here.

When the predatory follow the puck down to the other end
my net swarms like the Great Barrier Reef
with the smaller fish.
My crease fills with good questions
and wobbly wrist shots
(there are no bad questions, only bad wrist shots).

And then there are
the parents
always yelling
always telling them
where to aim.

At the rink across the street
Gerry Cheevers is welcome any time.