When I was 10 years old, I discovered
that Bobby Orr could not fly
My father was there, my grandfather too,
behind the net, when the picture was snapped

Jubilation, exultation, ecstasy and bliss
trapped in black and white for all time
– a lie.

The Bruins, for a moment, were the greatest
of all time, the black and gold statement
of a perfect moment proof of the wild
over the ranger, riffing jazz over the blues

I was still the inkling of me, the wish, the dream
the maybe poet in the angry womb
waiting for the old man to get home
half-in-the-bag and giddy

For ten years, Bobby Orr, could fly
he soared in all my dreams on stainless steel razor wings
over smooth gentle honest ice

The Bruins were Gods, until dad told me
the truth about Bobby Orr.