THIS IS NOT AN ODE TO MICHAEL BALLACK

Brother, if I were Michael Ballack,
I would kick back in the Poconos of the Pyrenees
with a carton of Shiteater Iced Tea.

I would move to the south of Germany, a village
known for tallest tower or most egregious bees

and run the high school Latin racket in rural
high schools, and Volvo my daughter to recitals of Carmen.

I would live in track suits, trainers, and logoless cotton shirts
that would allow my skin to inhale all the aerobic intent
of a given space until I reach my lactic threshold.

I would start a kraut musical junta and go on tour
with my model wife (different from standard wife-models)
until there is no hotel in Majorca which will render
us Rolling-Stones-shelter.

I would start an University of Power, a Cathedral of Brunt,
a Montessori Compound for Teutonic Bruins.

Brother, this Ballack guy, he can headbutt
I.C.B.M.s into the pocket-most-yonder on corner kicks.
He cracks balón like woodsman with vector know-how
and can arrest the balon on his chest like some Magnús.

There is no one can stop the laser-pointer once Ballack
lays it on you like the Lord's unequivocal retribution,
like a black rain that refuses to go into gutters.

Brother, there are some honors not granted despite hunger
for those honors, and there are hungers that amp the status
of a legend, but can’t do squat for their celebrity entropy.