The Plane
At recess certain of us would walk by
The swing set and the slide,
To the far side of the playground where
A sort of mirror (call it a plane) stood,
Reflecting whatever weather
We were under that day and the trees
That seemed to be trying to reach
Their branches into its frame
Like soldiers straining to get
Their grinning faces into the picture
Lest they die in the rumored charge.
It was pitched at such an angle
And made of such purchaseless stuff
(stainless steel buffed to a blinding sheen)
That it was just hard enough
To hold onto to hold our interest.
After spitting into our palms
And wiping the soles of our shoes off
Like we would in basketball
To keep from slipping on the court,
We charged at it, trying to catch it
At its slothful habit of gazing up at clouds,
So that, by the time it noticed us,
We’d already made it high enough
To grab the bar that ran along the top,
Hanging there a moment to prove
We’d conquered it
Before slowly sliding back down,
Smearing the fingerprints
Of those who, too tentative,
Hadn’t made it. Whoever designed
Such a thing must have been
Acquainted with failure and thought
That it would teach us a lesson
In perseverance. What it taught us
Instead was that there are faces
In the world that will always prefer us
Cautious, that we must surprise.