Ode to Roberto Baggio

There was a trail of wet panties ranging
from Vicenza on through Fiore and Juve

and specially soppier while in Inter until
it dried up in Brescia; a trail I never did

fully understand because you always
looked frail and a little syphilitic to me,

the only semblance of life being the swag
of that disastrously long ponytail mullet,

salt and peppered by three Cups and
mostly by that sad day in front of

Taffarel’s keep in ’94 when you
valiantly fucked up so badly,

and it is a well-known fact that the suicide
rate in Italy went through the roof that day,

in acrid Technicolor, tears streaming and
the gravy soured in every nonna’s pot.

***

Born and raised in Caracas, Abel Folgar currently resides in Miami, FL.

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