Objects Are Closer Than They Appear
Coasting down Steady Lane near the meadow,
where eastern pines open, covering gravel
with sun and casting crooked gray shadows
in early morning light, one exposed stone
the size of a billiard ball exploded, then
a sparrow bolted across my windshield.
Gunning up Dead Horse Hill at dusk beside
the duck pond where twilight scars the asphalt,
I braked and swerved to avoid a bright blue
and white bird I had never seen before,
not even in books.
Although I eased off
the gas and downshifted, this brilliant bird,
no, this blue and white potato chip bag
waved a goodbye in the rearview mirror
In too loose laces you tied yourself, you
set your skates upon the indoor ice, slip
and slide as if an otter in the zoo.
You begged off the frozen pond to trip
around the rink where big boys play, to step
inside the team benches and through the glass
then travel all alone the giant loop
along the boards, allowing none to pass,
beyond the red cage, behind the goal line
and then, best of all, the Zamboni door,
and, oh, careful now, sneak past the sin bin
where the zebra sends you if you play poor.
You shuffle once around the arena,
laughing to yourself like a hyena.
David Ram, a retired teacher, appreciates you reading his work.
Thank you so much, David. I especially appreciated the Public Skating poem.
Thanks, Ken. I’m glad to hear you appreciate that poem as I enjoy skating and tried to represent some of its pleasure, particularly for beginners.