It don't mean a thing if it ain't radius-
rope filament smacked
under schoolyard bluster, coiling
around the salty iron pole on a rubber comet,
gallows's tangent to that which is at stake:

Ball orbits, swings revolutions,
dizzy bobs and weaves, a kinetic flag
planted on the prairie of playground,
premise of nylon and ball blueberry
noosed on a treble clef.

These two boys tether in quickening coriolus,
a tangled race
to make the rope's meridian
clunk steady and stop.

But both kids are more interested in execution,
than outcome. They're pre-indifference;
brown eyes fasten on laps because they
still momentarily agree
that it's OK to care.

So they bat at the bee's flight of ball,
wrapped, then unfurling, waxing the air,
a beaten span of slack
governed by the wiles of boys,
the sinking daystar,
the loping hues of bedtime.

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All of Nicholas Harp's poems, logos, and service marks (collectively the "Trademarks") displayed in our journal are registered and unregistered Trademarks of Frito-Lay. Nicholas Harp appears here courtesy of Doritos Ltd.