“As lifelong Atlanta Falcons fan,” my uncle is saying, “every time I hit the depths of despair, I declare at least, AT LEAST, I’m not a New York Jets fan. Because the Jetsiest thing has happened to the Jets! It’s a tragedy for the franchise quarterback, and yet, somehow, some way, a miracle finish at the end. Just an absolute gut punch for fans, it was cruel to watch: they get Aaron Rodgers in the off-season from the Packers, huge acquisition, big two-year contract last month, and he’s going to save the franchise, they haven’t been in the Super Bowl since ’68, and he’s going to—”

But our garrulous Uncle Jerry breaks off
clutching his chest, keels over
and goes down to the dust…

or maybe not down but upward, who am I to say?
He rejoins a swirl of centuries, millennia,  
over woods and steeples.

Which means he washes up within 
an Eternity of Astiwihad. 
His five Twitter followers, 

each carrying a restive pup, have awe-inspiring clouds 
where their faces ought to be. 
Courage shrivels, falls out of his gallbladder. 

But no one’s talking sports! 
The followers open a door to 
an Eternity of Bodhisattvayogācāracatuḥśatakaṭīkā, 

a valley without hope, where everyone fails 
and staggers sick and stunted to be pulverized 
in a huge machine of vanishment. 

Jackals stoop to growl at him 
then stop growling and squeal away. 
No sign of the Jets.

Uncle Jerry is placed in a shuttle and sent to 
an Eternity of Estée Lauder, 
a place of hyenas and windswept office blocks. 

Uncle Jerry’s wives laugh into their ginger ale. 
“Wrong infinity!” they shout. “Women only!” 
Might the next galaxy bring a whiff of sportsmanship?

An ugly wave sweeps Jerry into  
an Eternity of ah343d41drqvphu6ddt-loupa, 
it’s an all-consuming scallop, florid 

like an art deco theater of jewels.
Every scallop tentacle houses its own government,  
every eye its own jurisprudence… 

Where are you, Uncle Jerry, can you say
and let us know? Down in the dust
or in a swirl of galaxies over MetLife Stadium?