iceskating
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I read a book about a girl named Zazoo
But maybe that girl was me.
She made poems as she rowed a boat in a canal
And watched for her sad gray cat
And thought about the war and how terrible the world is
They yank on their skates,
criss-cross the laces and
tug on my hand with stubby fingers.
The ice is thick and crusted with
white chips
Pondscum and cattails are hidden
under the marbled crust
I was just old enough to
Tie my shoe,
When my dad could hardly wait,
To teach me how to ice skate.
He wrapped my sister and I,
In coats to keep us dry.
And packed us in the car
