Next Time Cujo Next Time
My mask showed all the wear and tear, of games played in the thick
And of trials and tribulations, dealt by game with puck and stick.
Respectfully I offered it. I sought his autograph.
Cujo looked it over, then, indeed he had to laugh.
“I see you are a goalie that gets heavy in the game.
That kind of stand up attitude, can lead to hockey fame.”
He signed my mask inside the back, he said to send me luck.
That he’d be sliding with me, every time I stopped the puck.
It’s come to pass I’ve worn my mask, on nearly every day
For practices and skate and shoot, then with the teams I play.
Two years gone by, and in that time, I sweated off his name.
It’s now inside my head, or else, the pen he used to blame.
I lingered in the locker room, then had to moan out loud.
He’d been signing pucks and sticks out with the hockey crowd.
A player in the tournament, turned out to be his son.
Like any other parent there, he watched to see who won.
You have to cruise the spectators, at a Toronto rink
Curtis Joseph’s liable, to be closer than you think.
He blends right in like any dad, intent to watch the game.
But once the recognition comes, the outcome is the same.
Next time that I find sight of him, I’ll ask him to re-sign.
A goalie can’t have too much luck, when wins are on the line.
My chance to catch on up with him, is now some time away.
For now, I hold the honor, which is, he saw me play.
©2008 Artica Burr
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