My grade school had no gymnasium.
The auditorium hosted PE class
on rain-darkened days or those slick
with ice, the low stage across the front
shrouded in its thick brown curtain.
Sometimes a tumbling mat and low-
mounted 2 x 4 meant gymnastics,
balance practice as we dip-stepped
across the board, arms in airplane wings,
or body control while we somersaulted.
But when upcoming plays or assemblies
required a clear floor, rain meant dodgeball.
The largest classmates hurled soccer
and volley balls at the tiny and slow.
Me with two friends, hidden in folds.
Even across the room, a direct hit
could bruise, slap, jangle teeth. The large
ones were praised for their power,
their aim, the swiftness with which
one by one they took us out.
We just hoped to be unnoticed behind the brown,
that our quiet retreat to art’s cloaked stage
would enable us to endure the long hour,
return to our desk where Stuart Little
waited in its belly for us.
