Paean to Tim Riggins

He is not ripped, not steroid freaky

but you have to appreciate the pecs on this guy

also the chiseled V that directs your eye

to the promising pelvis--and I don’t

easily wax prosaic about the physical--

but those biceps, and then of course

the kicker is his utter nonchalance when

he throws those square-toed boots up on

the coffee table and the jeans so well filled

out--it should be a sonnet.

Then the bad boy long hair, stringy

sometimes and not quite as clean as

you might hope, the assymetrical

eyebrows, above the calm eyes of

an angel: wronged and wronging in equal

measure. He tries so hard, he loves like

thunder. Every bad, impetuous thing

he does is for love. He has his ass (so

sweet, so tight) handed to him in a

handbasket daily. The ones who love him

cannot help him; the ones he loves will not.

He is doomed. He blames himself.

We love our beauties doomed, our lovers punished.

It allows our envy to be suffused with relief.

His innocence: a place we can imagine ,

recreate, but cannot inhabit any more,

jaded as we are. We know how this turns out.

We are helpless in that we cannot stem

the tide of his disillusionment. How could we?

It came to us far faster than to him. We wish

we could transform his Beauty into Truth.

I haven’t said anything yet about his mouth.