Different ways of telling time

(i) last minute of play

Four-faced, the clock sees everywhere.

Dead centre over the ice, it hangs from chains.

The players glance up, exchange a word, a sideward

look - less than a minute to go. They know time's rough

and tumble. Space and time, that's where they live,

arcs and angles, a quick move to open ice.

Their flashy physics.

Spectacles shift and glitter behind the glass.

Maybe someone they know but they never look

at the crowd. They're at the bench to hear the plan -

"Boys, you get a bounce here, things can happen fast."

Left out on the ice - they might as well be

on the moon - both goalies eye the clock,

one's for zero, the other likes infinity,

but things can change.

Get going clock.

Slow down slow down.

No one in the building likes time's pace.

(ii) you could drift out here forever

Jesus, here we go.

Seventh game, and seconds left to overtime.

Talk's over at the glass, the captains

waved away. The referee holds four fingers up

and folds his arms, four seconds he wants put back

on the clock. Son of a bitch, an old defender

sags against the boards. Still, imagine the power,

to kick time's arse like that.

(iii) sudden death

The light begins to fade. The cat wants out.

The hours to game-time leak away.

A hint of green pushes into the woods on the long par five

behind the house. I watch the cat sharpen up on a favourite stump.

She yawns and stretches out to twice her length, then leisurely,

she makes her way toward the trees.

Driving into the city, the traffic's heavy,

creeping along in a cloud of exhaust. Stop and go.

The radio low. Country songs, warning about the snow

coming down from Canada. Clutch in clutch out and drift in dreams

of accidents and overtime. Blink and you're done, a dead man

or worse, a radio joke until four in the morning.

(iv) ice time

The guys arrive as if at random intervals,

lay out their gear, lucky shirt, same skate first,

same old jokes about my liniment, Jesus,

Ukey, lose that shit why don't you?

Roll their eyes and tiptoe by.

Check the clock and tape my own stick,

thank you, heel to toe, no wrinkles, tape the ankles.

Time to go out and get loose, guys in twos and threes

at home on ice, tucking pucks lazily under the crossbar.

Same old talk, someone you got to slow down,

a glance where he's talking it up

with his own guys.

Here's the house where I live, I can't say no.

Howe and Lindsay's eyes on me. Pronovost, tough

as a bag of batteries, slaps my pads. I see myself as I pass

in the glass, pick up that look from the other side, a nice pair

of knees that edge apart as I go by. I get a whiff of ice

and something in me starts alive. I take

a few shots, catch and flick, feeling

quick, clank behind me,

lucky too.

Then back inside and bedlam now. Adams

flapping but I don’t hear. Holy Mary, don’t let me

fall on my face tonight. I try to loosen a pad, my shaking

hand so bad Jesus Jesus. Tommy Ivan shoves in beside me,

knowing he needs to settle me down. New cufflinks on.

Knocks my stick for luck I’m nodding but Mother of Christ

I’m dying inside, can’t keep still now everybody wants to go,

the clatter, the chatter, rockers, talkers. "Gotta have this one.

Gotta have it guys." This was where we’d bellow out

some raunchy song when we were young, scare

the bejesus out of everyone. "Nice neighbourhood like this,"

they’d say. "Who let the bloody DPs in?" Tommy drums

a rhythm on my leg – I watch his moving hand

distracted by the veins and lines that make the hand

a miracle, an acrobat, a thief. Gotta have it, guys.

I brace for the roar at the end of the tunnel.

"Give me a hand here, Tommy, tuck that in, that – look,

that bloody strap." Then bang the door and Jesus here we go,

someone shouts those words I love and dread, I hear

them all my life – Let the goalie go first.



(v) carpe diem

They yammer at the press in towels

and the present tense - "So I see Goldie sneaking in

and what I think, I think . . . "

I flick the water from a blade. The living

moment's where they ply their trade, you get your chance

you make it count. They like where time gets in your face

and open ice where you can really fly, or close-in battle

when the sticks get high, the action hot and heavy

as a leg draws up the sheet and slowly

opens out, my living Christ. They swing behind the net,

glancing up to find a gap, an open man, they like the crowd

up on their feet, the bodies piling on, the heft

and taste of women overhead.

"So I see Goldie sneaking in, I'm thinking, man,

if I can just draw Lumley to that post then slip it back

to him, but holy jumpin' don't let this one get away.

You get your chance, you better make it count.

I guess I just get lucky, Fred."

I wipe the other blade and smile.

Seems a neighbourhood I know from long ago.

(vi) big river

Stirring in the dark from ache to ache, crabbing

after scraps of sleep. Outside, the muffled quiet says the snow

has come. I love the city softly locked.

Let it snow forever.

I watch her shoulder's gentle rise and fall,

like she's floating on the water.

Her back's a miracle, so long and smooth

and brown, and there the jut of hip in envied sleep.

I trace a nail along her spine. Where has she been to get

so brown? What was she saying as I fell asleep? - The smell

of smoke from open fires, barking dogs and swimming out

into the harbour in the dark. Drifting off, I'd felt her

fingers trace their path from scar to scar. This was Watson,

this one here, Henri Richard, and here's the night Pit Martin

cracked your mask and blackened both your eyes, this one

you can hardly see, your brother on the rink

behind your house . . .

How good was that tonight. The guys

were bouncing off the walls. Jack was grabbing

everyone - he knew we had it in us all the time. His buddies

from the press were happy too, no trouble getting anyone

to talk tonight. You hear the racket in the shower,

"What a smack, that little head fake shit . . . "

"Just a sucker punch, hey everybody

knows the guy . . . "

I don't need her clock to know the time.

I shift the arm again, but can't shake something

someone said last night - "Hey, that kid out there

in Edmonton, that gaping hole between his legs,

but man he's got the corners covered.

Ukey Ukey watch your ass."

I crab a little closer to her back.

God, how bad I need this heat.