A short Habsian surrealist poem

Danault, Danault, Danault ? Danault, Danault, Danault? Not before Tuesday. Yes, but he signed the contract, he’s coming back anyway. Not before Tuesday, I’m telling you. In the faceoff circle, the ice should whisper. Not at all, that’s just you grumbling. The boards breathe blue and white. The boards don’t breathe anything, you’re the one sweating by yourself. In a certain sense, time is playing shorthanded against you. Danault? Not before Tuesday. He has to move his belongings. Danault, Danault, Danault… Ghost center, invisible pass. You’re dramatizing. Yes, but he’ll have aged. He won’t be able anymore to erase the enemy lines. So why are you bottling it up inside if inside you’re already falling apart? Like erasing a playoff nightmare. Yes, but Danault — it really is him. Yes. It’s him. The net waits, patiently. Yeah, the net waits, it does. Montembeault is dreaming somewhere else. And the crowd murmurs in unison: come back and calm the game down. Danault, Danault, Danault? He’s thirty-two, you know. Thirty-two. Immune to the stressed-out ones among Montreal fans. Don’t change the subject. Look at me. Answer me seriously about Danault.