Triple Sonnet for Dennis Rodman, #91, on my Television Screen

I tell R that McDonald’s has sold out of
the special $6 celebrity rapper meal,
and it’s a moment straight out of my nineties
childhood when Michael Jordan had his own
burger: the McJordan with smoked bacon, cheese,
and BBQ sauce, and don’t forget the onions,
and don’t you wish your beloved would call you
nicknames like McGorgeous or McLovely
or at least McPretty, and I wonder if names
like that are reserved for run-of-the-mill white
guy doctors/actors on television shows past their
prime. All I know is I’m mad my meal is sold
out. All I know is Dennis Rodman was my favorite
Bulls player as a kid, and how I remember
his green hair on the court or what about when
he dyed it yellow with leopard spots or the time
it was a smiley face in the back, and he really was
a performer, even a dancer. And who could forget
when he declared he was going to marry himself,
showing up to Barnes and Noble in a wedding dress
and a parade of bifauxen behind him. Cheers to you,
Dennis, and thank you for giving me a childhood:
January 2, 1998 when you hit three three pointers
in a row. Give me a triple triple. At fast food joints
everyone asks for a double double, but why ask
for two when you could have three, and we all know
thrice is even nicer, like how Spumoni ice cream
isn’t complete without cherry, and Neapolitan
isn’t anything without strawberry, and have
you tried the astronaut version that’s one
hard block? But who wants it dry when
you could be wet is a rhetorical question
for every context. Give me a triple espresso
with a Triple Decker Dagwood with olive
on top, and oh, Dagwood, you lucky fool,
how did you ever score a babe like Blondie?
Count your blessings. Give me a juicy pickle
from the largest glass jar. Appetizer.
Entrée. Dessert. The rule of three applies
to meals the most. Or I’ll take a triple topping
pizza: anchovies, sausage, and olives, throw
in a soda to wash it all down—three wishes.