The Pumping Heart



Practice over, dark already,

cold as hell outside,

February 1964 before

we head out into the snow.


We’re in the shower

howling our teenage

boy inanities as the hard

water caroms off


our tired shoulders

and washes away

the algebra test

for now at least.


Out the door and

into the daunting wind,

lashing our faces,

stinging our flesh into


life. This is it;

this is real, the

bruises, aches,

the pumping heart,


our breath pouring

out like smoke

in the wild night,

our souls flying out


over our little town.

We make it home and kick

the snow off our boots; we

think we know something.