Short Story Twenty Twelve

Hot brown tea on the table blocks the

blue water of the pool scored in lines across

the panning camera

and I’m sucked across the carpet to heroes

the passing heads and cars beyond the bay the few

and I the many as they enter

wheelchairs crutches hopping

pained stilted juddered

stunning powerful beautiful

an awesome place a palace of dreams filled with guttural power

power to forget power to belittle power to become

a million sofas drawn to the bleachers to swell

the coming storm

they bend crouch hang an exhibition of battered bodies that now crush abled they smash recoil

awaiting the gentle parp to go and away and pace and length

a legless turn

I am stunned

water in the eyes makes them red and stream it is involuntary

half an arm chops a frozen trunk with the speed through the noise and the tears

he took bronze whose leg was taken by a shark and the tears will not stop flowing as

flags rise for heroes who are a hundred times my petty poor hopes

they are huge and perfect and

my tea

is cold.