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by Terence Culleton
Some sheer around, some teeter on their skates
and push off to recover, others glide
half-hunkering through shaky figure eights.
Three hug the boards along the other side
and one on this side readjusts his hat
to get a tighter fit. There's music, too,
some tape-looped bop tune cluttered up with scat.
Waiting here means nothing else to do
but watch them taxi hopefully. They seem
—if not Olympics bound—still, set to veer
toward some kind of glory, mouthing steam.
I'd like to be like them again, career
about in yellow gloves, red scarf, and all
those layers on for luck were I to fall.