In the locker room before the game,
the players don’t know what to make
of me dry-humping the doorframe

in my armadillo disguise. My
stitched smile is fixed, reveals nothing;
my huge head muffles my laughter.

By the end of the first half
I’m sidelined, pacing back & forth
in front of the row of the faithful

cheerleaders who wear a different kind
of mask as their eyes & teeth shine.
They maintain their devotion

to hope without fail, even when
our team is dragging behind
by twenty-three points, while the fat

Catholic priests of the university
lean over their rail & scream at the refs
without swearing. At halftime

I run up the court from one basket
to the other, firing my t-shirt
cannon into the stands where

the screaming fans all rise up from
their stands & start waving their hands—
apelike, dancing to terrible techno

under the spotlights roaming the dark,
begging for me to aim for them. Suddenly,
in this moment, we are all one

kind of animal or another. After
we lose by ten, I get my picture taken
over & over with small children

who pull on my long rubber nose, who
hold onto my costume, running their fingers
over my scales to see if they’re real.