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Skipping
When I skip it usually takes
two or three tries to get going.
I lash the rope overhead and
it crashes into my ankles.
I try again, faster, and this
time the rope sails clear of my feet.
Each jump sends me higher, and for
the briefest moment, I’m flying.
The rope is immaterial.
It may as well be somewhere else
as my feet dance in and out, in
and out, over and over. At
times like this I can manage two
or three hundred skips, without pause.
Easy. Then the rope reminds me
of its presence, and illusions
of invincibility end.
I have to start over again,
with nothing, completely from scratch.
It takes two or three tries to get
going, and my ankles are sore.
Then the jump lands and I’m set free.
I manage two or three hundred
skips. Easy. As if everything
that came before was nothing but
practice for this – the real run.
But inevitably the rope
intervenes, like it always does,
and sends me straight back to square one.
I wish life was much different.
