Olympic Fever

What is it about the Olympics,
that strange, glorious parade of the odd and the beautiful,
that makes us care so deeply
about women's under 58kg weightlifting,
a sport we hadn’t known existed until last Tuesday?

Handball, with its curious mix
of soccer and something else entirely,
becomes, for two weeks,
the reason I leap from my couch
with the enthusiasm of a man possessed.

And why do I find myself
invested in the form of the Nigerian marathoner,
who I’m certain has the legs to go all the way,
or suspect that New Zealand, of all places,
will walk away with wrestling gold?

Is it the magic of the moment,
or some ancient spell from the days
of gladiators and chariot races,
a modern Coliseum wrapped in flags
and good intentions?

Perhaps it's both—a cocktail
of spectacle and spirit,
just enough opiate to keep us cheering,
our voices hoarse with excitement
instead of anger.

But whatever it is,
whatever alchemy makes me
suddenly an expert in canoe slalom
or synchronized swimming,
I’m hooked,
and when the closing ceremony arrives,
I’ll be the one asking,
“Can we have a third week, please?”