Man on the Zamboni, polished ice. 
Did the rink proud. Shiny.
Come playoffs, slick gray-pink octopi 
rained from a red-winged crowd. 
The crew ran, slid to pick them up, 
Eight legs times two, equals wins for the cup. 
The driver’d twirl the biggest one 
over his head. 
Our victory dance. 
Then, an NHL suit said “No more.” 
We lost our beloved quirk.
The team owner died.
The kids took over. Cold, hard jerks. 
Always been rich. No heart.
Team at sea in bureaucracy.
The driver grew old. 
Fired for being incontinent.
Inconvenient, a relic too human. 
Started work at 17. Canned at 68. 
No parting dance, nothing shiny. 
Not even a tin of calamari.

For April 23, write a poem in the style of Kay Ryan, whose poems tend to be short with a lot of rhyme and soundplay.