Skateboard

Blacktop pavement rushing along,
Eight little bearings singing their song.
An obstacle, a thought,
A snap into my hand.
An object cleared with a big mute japan.
A smile on my face,
Yet not from pride of a skill,
But from fun that's derived,
From my childish will.
So I'll grin and I'll giggle as I dance in the air,
Watched by the grounded, who think it's not fair.
That one of their age should have so much fun,
They'll frown, and they'll grimace,
And they'll say one by one:
"It's immature,"
"So grow up."
"Your childhood is done."
But what they don't understand,
It's the celebration of life,
That's the true mark of a man.
Some learn that quite young, some not at all,
Where one sees a playground, another, a wall.
So out on the streets I'll continue to play,
And when the scores are all tallied at the end of the day,
I worked and I played; they worked and they moaned,
And infrequently rented the happiness I owned.

November 27, 1990

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