ODE TO CRISTIANO RONALDO

Imagine flair an ingredient of gwow!
Highlights in the hair of streaked peacock.
Ronaldo, Cristiano, Correcaminos Soberano.
He dizzies the balon, combing it back and forth:
as if he were spinning diaphanous Kevlar hair
or spiderweb streakers with jewels of dew.
Imagine an Atomic Squid with bounty of tentalegticles.
On each foot, a sneaker signed by speed certificates.
Ronaldo, Cristiano, Correcaminos Lujáno.
He is rather unstoppable. Like jet black garden snakes
that stitch through scrub until they flash the eyes.
When he fakes, a wake of whatif precludes intent.
Imagine yellow or hazard orange cleats--bandaged to hilt.
Techno jeans stores and Maserati loafers, dope cologne
and power point presentations with flaming swooshes.
His rubberband move is the bane of D's existence because
as D-man you must commit to a lunge; you can't half-lunge, can you?
You can't flux capacitor back once you lunge.
You lunge, but he just keeps blowing past your whole life:
a stop-motion parable.