To me you are an ice-skating rink,
Perfectly flat, and hard,
Onto which I step from the mushy rubber floor before,
Having gazed at the skaters in so many colors,
And there being so many spaces to slip,
And land on one's butt,
With a smile for anyone watching.
I'd be so happy to split my lip on you in falling,
And mark my place in blood,
While someone just barely misses my face,
And the blade of their skate goes war-story close!
It's always super nice for me at this rink,
With the snow-cone wind breathing in my ear.
Actually, I am warm! Just fine!
Maybe because I have superpowers in reality,
And I should act more brave the next time I'm afraid.
Anyway, I can't retie my laces,
And keep my ankles straight, anymore.
I'll be stopping back by the lockers.
Let's get some cocoa, oh pal, oh bud,
I think it's seventy-five.
Dad is picking us up at three o'clock anyway!
SCA 1996