By J.J. Tindall
Stingray
When I was a kid,
gloved in hubris,
cocooned by family,
I craved a stingray.
My simple, sturdy, standard
Schwinn paled
agin the gleam
and gloss of the more
stylish roadster.
Banana seat, extended
back-brace, high handlebars.
Well: I got the high handlebars.
Anon I cruised
more gaily, one accessory
closer to ideal.
But then I reeled.
Across the field,
a fresh Nemesis.
A peer upon a ray–
ignominious display!–
handlebars high
but further curved
unto the likeness
of ram’s horns.
Stung: devastation!
Covetous blood boiling
under knee pants,
pride blighted
by that jammy bastard!
Vividly, I remember.
I remember every
Yuletide, re-grappling
with my wounded pride.
No thing
is ever enough, no thing
is in essence
insurmountable.
That’s heavy, for a kid.
It stayed
with me.
–
J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
–
More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
Posted on December 5, 2011