Conc

I carefully weaved my laces
in and out and
round and round.
My creased leather boots
creaked as i finally started pulling
rather harshly upon either end
until my finger tips burned a little,
sickly white, and i
finished the perfect bow;
i later learnt that
it wouldn’t matter
how well my boots were
attached to my stubby
feet, but i still took
some degree of pride in
the subtle shine of the leather
and the way the laces held such taut symmetry.

I squirmed into my
favourite coat and sprinkled
my scarf about my neck
before donning wool gloves
and leaping out the door
my outfit complete
for the chill outside.

The tread on my soles
waged war on the mix of cobbles,
tarmac and snow
it came into contact with
as i waltzed along, although
not by any sort of choice.
Occasionally jazz hands
sprang from my side but
not to dazzle audiences,
instead to steady my body;
i played the line -
“have a nice trip, see you next fall”
over in my head as i witnessed
a young mother fall by the hands of her
giggling youngsters, i cracked a smile
but held back the laughter from
everywhere but my eyes, which couldn’t contain themselves.

Before long i had
reached my destination,
as apparently had hundreds
of other willing hopefuls.
Would lady luck be present
and smiling upon me in the
brisk conditions of the day?

Formalities and boring old women
graced the stage and breathed over
the microphone more than they spoke
for a while, how long, i’m not sure.
It was then the moment came,
a middle-aged man probably
around 43 years old took the mic,
i don’t know which startled me more,
his tacky metallic gold blazer
or his ridiculous radio dj voice,
which i’m sure he recorded to
himself over and over in his bathroom, perfecting his craft;
even so he was a most fresh relief.
After he had tired himself announcing the competition
he scrunched the golden ticket into what seemed
more like a pokeball than my spherical future
and began a count-down.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4,
3,
2,
1.
He then launched the ball into the air.

My eyes, squinting somewhat, locked onto the ball
with the sort of accuracy found in
a military homing missile system or
hawk-eye at Wimbledon,
but at that point, i then knew
i couldn’t make it, i’d try,
but i wouldn’t make it.
No amount of jostling with eagle-like elbows
or steel toe booting would net me that ball.

Five seconds later it was all over,
some yob with purple shoes and red leather trousers
held the ball in his grip, the golden ticket was his.
I found a bench, sat, and tried to weep, but due
to the weather shedding tears was impossible.

There was always next year.

M. W.
10/1/10