You are nothing to me but a smear on the sports
page of the morning paper
Nothing but spilt coffee
Nothing but a stain on my past
I’ll throw it away
But I know you’ll come back
I spill coffee fairly often
Maybe I should stop drinking coffee
Or reading the sports page
I don’t know why I do
I hate hearing about overpaid athletes
And their abused girlfriends
I hate thinking about what could have been
If you hadn’t been at the wrong place at the wrong time
If you were on the front page, holding a trophy
Instead of in the ground
You can probably hear the feet of the athletes above you
I remember the last time I saw you
You said, “I’m going out.”
I said, “Can I come with?”
“Not today,” you said
Now you’re nothing to me but a smear on the sports page of the morning paper