my parents gifted me a bow and arrow.
christmas eve, 1997
i became the most untamed human in suburbia lantana,
forever dressed in a bare chest and boyhood,
this forty-five pound,
slightly camouflaged compound bow,
wedded my left hand;
with the round tipped aluminum arrows,
quivered tightly inside the back right pocket of my blue jeans;
their, solid colored feathers
brushing between my shoulder blades as i prowled the living room,
to be reckoned with.
it nearly took my father's every breath to keep me indoors til’ morning,
and i remember the drive with my mother out to wellington,
to pick up the three hay bales,
that would stand behind a foam target
and catch stray arrows.
i appeased my parents,
shooting at that foam target,
but all eternity knows i really aimed at much more fabled prey.
i would rehearse,
in the backyard,
like my future as robin hood depended on it;
i imagined these scenarios in which
i’d be selected out of a crowded arena
to step down onto the floor
and shoot one arrow
for the chance to save everybody's lives.
i rescued and lost millions daily,
but always ended with triumph,
and together with the rejoicing masses
we’d tramp back into the porch
to celebrate with a bottled root beer.
my bow gathers dust on the top shelf of my parents garage;
and its string
has most likely rotted;
but every so often,
on nights my arena
is crowded with a pretty laugh
and sea eyes,
i remember with envy
i use to draw back that string to my right cheek,
aim and let fly,
arrow to hay bale,
arrow to fencepost,
arrow to neighbors yard,
as if my ability to hit the bullseye
had all afternoon to wait for the back pocket full of my best tries;
i only need one
the sun sets long in my daydreams,
and she said a root beer sounds really good right about now.