Poem 25

No poem last week, and I am unlikely to apologize for it.

The students in my publications class helped me to revise this one. They are a pretty insightful bunch for being in eighth grade. I hope I had something to do with that.

On another note, I don't think anyone is reading this anymore. That doesn't mean that I will stop, but I'd like to see a comment or to for no other reason than to know anyone still checks this. Thanks!

Coaching the High Jump

With the meet packed up
and the score keepers
tallying up an afternoon
at a table on the field,
the few of us left
huddle like family
in the dozing 6 P.M. light
for the last high jumper.
Mom and dad with camera,
tight fists, and sunglasses
stand to the side
to let their son guess
with his whole body
the height of the bar.
They are crazy for letting me
teach him this risk.
We watch him
as he packs enough hope
for eight steps and a jump
into a few seconds of quiet.
He rocks forward from his mark,
and runs hell-bent at the pit.
Rebelling against gravity,
he throws 13 years of
meals and doctor visits,
care and genes, at the sky,
trusting the pad to receive
his neck-risking dare.
For an instant,
so small I could
pluck it with tweezers,
he stops over the bar
and starts to fall,
foot grazing the fiberglass pole.
His body hits, and he rolls
off the pad, the bar
still humming above.