Year of writing 104. 14/30

4/14/12

14/30

The freedom of it,

polyurethane against pavement

repetitive clicks as 

each control joint on the sidewalk

passes beneath me

and the board.  The way 

wind feels against my face, 

how the world blurs through 

saline veils down the hills.

I picked up my skateboard 

today.  It's rusty, missing 

bolts.  The wheels still turn, 

though - the familiar hum 

of bearings spinning.  I oiled, 

tightened, cleaned - muscles 

moving from memory.  I turned it 

in my hands, placed it on 

the garage floor - heard the pop

of maple against concrete.  It 

sounded a little like a promise, 

a little like a secret. When I ride 

again, on ruined knees and 

achy back, it wont be for thrill

or sport, or even nostalgia.  It will be

for the wind, for freedom and the wind.