SKATEPARK

by Annie Lou Martin 

Thick air lends gravity a shape.
Bugs chew. Boys smack, skid, and glide.
When an arc is cut short, the motion continues to propel them.
The teenager bleached orange seems ambidextrous.
He reminds me of a boy I loved clean.
Nose tips up, tail follows. Kickflip flashes underbelly.
A trick is frustrated, perfected, then becomes the trick before the trick.
There is no shortcut to anything but a bruise.
Bracing means gunshot slap, not grace or liquid.
I dream the scene underwater.
Streetlamps glow like moldy lemons.
Some learning is about knowing when to abandon.