This Piece of Wood

The only time I feel 

A modicum of freedom

On this piece of wood. 

The wind in my curls

And a bee on my shoulder

The possibility of a broken jaw looming beneath my feet.

The chance to catch a fear 

In its shifting tracks. 

The sunlight on my black jeans

The smell of asphalt in my nose

And a lady bug crawling my hand.

Sixteen spots, eight on each side;

Kicking and pushing

Pushing the limits

Testing my soul

Learning to slide,

To throw my feet against the momentum

My back to the carve

Because there’s nothing to lose. 

Freedom.

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