The Truth About Tigers

I’m on the couch, attention split
between a spy novel and Monday Night Football.
The volume’s so low the broadcasters
sound like they’re sharing secrets.

My wife went to bed with a migraine,
the kids are upstairs, asleep—
or maybe pretending, flashlights flickering
over pages beneath blankets—
like I once did a million years ago.

My book glows under bright overhead light,
because, according to my driver’s license,
I’m at an age where surreptitious reading
is no longer required,
no matter the hour
or day of the week.

The broadcasters’ whispers spike with excitement.
I glance up from Damascus Station
just in time to see the Bills score.
I smile—not because I’m from Buffalo,
but because Josh Allen’s on my fantasy team,
and I’m now winning a silly game
that means nothing at all.