In a glass enclosure five stories high,
I, fancying a new living, gazed at the world, and glimpsed
Not just a man driving in the square, but infinite possibility.
It sat atop a zamboni as blue as lapis lazuli,
Smoothing slush into old ruts, and
Conditioning for the first score,
The summertime fountain floor.
It’s unconcerned with the western sky,
Into whose white, smoke trumpets and
Commingles before going — poof!
In four laps it’s done;
Hoisting its blades and trundling on rubber wheels
Back to the shed’s zen-like solitude.
And although its message cannot be read with certainty,
Behold, it seemed to say, not another enclosure,
But ONE of many options!
I, liking options, glided with it over the ice’s fresh finish,
Not by strapping underfoot the dull deer bones of yore,
But atop the latest carbon steel, on which I’m swifter,
Swifter than a Jamaican bolt.
My heart quivers to think only my skate-bearing feet,
And not those of post lock-out Leafs, may
Compromise the rink’s dense hydrogen bonds.
Unlike them, so long benched,
I’m whizzing down the rink and wowing the crowd,
Who’re pounding the boards as I angle a blade
And shave the rink.
My mates’ sticks are clanking and mine is pumping
In an arena air dense with cheers . . .
She shoots . . . she scores!
. . . Blessings from heaven . . .
That would be the life!