The Boy in the Cage
The Boy in the Cage They would pair us up helmet to helmet In a kind of cage meant to teach us To stay low coming out of our stances. On the cage stood Irv Olson, Who liked to scream, “You gotta be the meanest son of a bitch in the valley!” “What the hell valley’s he talking about?” We laughed. But in the cage we said nothing, Our mouths full of mouth guards Specific to our teeth. We hardly breathed, Listening for the whistle. I can stop time now, make him wait, Let him do a little thinking, remember when He was the boy in the cage. Because doesn’t this have to do with some failure He’s foisting upon us, some war He missed? I could have all the time in the world And still not know who the boy across from me is. Maybe Shaun Bradbury, who years later Would be shot over some shit he didn’t even say On Facebook, or Josh Sickles — what a name — Ready to mow me down like rye. It all brings to mind those spring-loaded cages That crushed the magicians’ doves As the hall filled with the wings of applause. It’s a law of physics that nothing disappears. I can’t take the whistle from Irv's lips, But I can end this poem before he blows it.