Description: Good heavens. A poem about David Cullen. Who would've thought. Yeah, I'm weirded out too. This is my attempt at Hemingway-esque prose. Don't make fun of it, it's only an attempt.
Which Matters More -------------------------------------------
The floor felt different today
as the boy pounded his frustration
into the stale, harvest oxygen around us.
The tiles were powdery
beneath my loose Adidas. And he complained
with those haughty eyes and his
sleek basketball shorts making a
hushing sound as he slid on the floor.
He lay there in his -momentary?- failure.
His eyes peeling away layers of the ceiling,
unblinking at the fluorescent lanterns.
And with that gaze open I could see
a boy who loved the game and loved
to try (to try) and love and held his head
above the clouds but kept his heart
below the ground and held me with
such esteem because of where I'm from
and I saw his loneliness and his fury and his
worry and I saw into him and I saw--
--a boy. (which matters more
than all my previous rambling.)
I wanted to go to him, make him stand.
Instead I watching him sink into the floor
until he rose on now powdery legs.
I could have comforted him. But I think
that while he holds me up high, he is still
afraid of me. He does not touch me.
As though I am surrounded by a shield of perfection,
intangible. He looks at me with a
broken heart, touches with such
dispassionate manner. So much that
I fear I might lie down with him in the dust
and let the powdery tiles be our
Goodness. Is this meant to be "read into"? Are you just talking about PE, plain and simple, or...is something going on with him... Now you have me worried. Anyway, well done dahling. Let me know the story behind this piece. As for the Hemingway part, I'm ashamed to say that I've not read any Hemingway, so I wouldn't be able to compare this to his work. Later. Hannah