Glove or no glove, it fits
roundly, beautifully pink
and unscratched in my hand.
I bought it at Logan Airport
years ago, returning from a trip
during which I read some poems
in a couple of college writing
classrooms. But not once has anyone
ever thrown it across a yard or grassy
field flecked with dandelions in early
summer, toward an eager child
ready with a mitt still a little too large
for her hand. Not once has it splintered
an upstairs window to a chorus of shouts.
Perhaps it simply went the way most things
meant to serve as reminder or memento
go— on a shelf, then in a box with the stuffed
bunny and baby shoes; then shuffled from
move to move until it resurfaces. So I admire
the sixty-five year old woman, a competitive
slalom skateboarder whose well-used skateboard
and team bag are displayed in a Skate Museum.
When she screams as she loops through giant
slalom courses, it's because she's scared
and happy at the same time. When I hear
a loud bang from somewhere down the road,
I guess it could be either gunshots,
or a car backfiring.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
