Western Roll

30, 40, 50 jumps

A day, from the frost

Of February into summer,

And I never got it right,

That little leg lift

At the top, hanging

Motionless over the bar.

I was 12. Everywhere

I looked were walls,

Heights I hadn't cleared,

And I dreamed of sailing

Over six-foot cyclone fences

And the roofs of cars.

Or I stopped, tired anyway,

Waiting out the rain

Under a gutter bagged

With leaves, imagining

It up at 74" or so

And off on another chase,

This one a relay

By way of Weldon Avenue,

Carrying on with a torch

Toward Rome or Athens

And the next Olympics,

Toward Brumel who waited

Already there, lonely

And lovely with his records.

I waited, too, for the clouds

To boil over and move on,

And then was up against

A slippery grass field

And a pit of wood shavings

With all the give of cement,

The bar at personal best,

Working a smooth approach

And hearing the plant foot

Slap the packed earth,

And then the body flushed

And soaring with effort,

Heady and beyond itself,

Caught up with being

Up in the air.

Structure

42 lines · 2 stanzas