ODE TO JUAN ROMAN RIQUELME

Your feet are ordnance from the future.
A pair of cleats we might call, The Lazy Magician,
if they weren’t so caked with clumps of loam.

In your head there is a police scanner, a blotter
of crimes of passion (committed in the box),
nine alibis, the randy dance in vogue by the port,
and seven sailors with stilettos in their boots.

The way you entice them to you for ridicule;
saying, you poor, headless rooster, I told you
not to hunt grubs by the sparkly whetstone.

When I ask Coach Narcissus about you
he says you are not superfast striker, you
are a prospector, an engineer of podiatry,
if such a thing exists, a condor with the
torquetalons of a smaller bird of prey.

Then, let’s dispel the elephants in cleats
in the room. You are a scion of the slums
the province of Buenos Aires manufactures.
You wear Diego’s ten in the Bombonera.
You incite the homicidal fans to tear chunks
of skin from their jerseys, or to brain each other
into fighting-song compote.

There is very little that you can do
to stop them from wanting to machete
you in the shins; however, if you keep
smiling, they might never get the satisfaction.