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Lily Jan 13
It was a retro roller rink,
Skating around boards that gave you splinters,
Trying each arcade game, wasting quarters,
And how many times you could bribe the DJ to
Play your favorite song.
He was sitting alone in the corner of the side cafe,
At the booth where the floor had a giant crack,
Where his foot was nervously tapping,
Sunshine was streaming in on his curly red hair,
As he waited in suspense for
To walk through the door, all confidence and smiles,
Like she was the lead in a musical.
She had that magical way of walking and skating,
Almost like every move was a
Choreographed mix of chaos and art.
The hours passed, the rink cleared out,
The sun went down over his booth,
And he continued to tap his foot on the
Crack in the floor.
But when she came sweeping in that door at
11:36 pm brighter than the disco ball,
His heart swelled like the bass on a road trip,
And as the two of them sweat their hearts out
On the rink until the wee hours of the morning,
That maze of splinters and heartbreaks,
He found that he had never been as happy as he was with
I just started a poetry class at my college today, and this is the first poem that came out of it!  Let me know what you think! :)
JR Rhine Jun 2016
We sat outside the coffee shop
next to a fire,
watching the sun set behind decrepit buildings.

I lamented over the lack of a roller rink in the area,
reflecting on memories of wobbling around in circles
with dizzying lights and blaring speakers
ejecting Pink, Daft Punk, and Eiffel 65 onto my critical youth.

I felt like a king.

We finished our smoothies and retreated
to an empty hotel parking lot,
where I taught her to skateboard.

One foot over the front bolts,
the back foot over two of the back bolts
but resting over the tail,
kick, push,
it's in the ***** of your feet--
weight distribution.

Tic, tac, scrape, thud--
she falls repeatedly
and gets back up.

I admire her resilience and perpetual smile--

This is what skateboarding is all about.

We roll around the hotel parking lot,
our endpoints being a lone luminescent lamppost
and a telephone pole beleaguered by a plot of shrubbery
that demarcates itself from the pavement.

We circle around the poles for hours,
forming an imaginary oblong track between the two,
our laughs carrying into the cool summer night lullaby
that sang the drowsy small town to sleep.

The fading throb of the wedding reception
at the bottom of the town square by the wharf,
carrying over to us.

The stores closed up hours ago,
silent empty windows reflecting the lonely streetlights
and our ambulance back at us.

We skated on unperturbed into the night hour.

A man walks outside the hotel
to have a cigarette on the sidewalk--
I imagine he is watching us and admiring our glee.

Rolling between this telephone pole and lamppost,
the glare and reflection of the empty silent windows,
the soundtrack singing above our heads,
our laughs, and the tic-tac of skateboards
and groaning of wheels over stubborn pavement
bringing my melancholic reverie to a halt,
recognizing and understanding happiness in the present moment--

This is my roller rink.

— The End —