Olympic Rings

Red clay rising, arms, legs, head
sculpted from the wet muddy mass;
never a lad gifted with a hula hoop
I dreamt of tossing one, two, three
four, five of them skyward all at once
catching them in limbs supple, body
crimson clad, form uncompromising.

Back arched, toes tip the embankment
gossamer mist coalesces in clouds
that traverses skyways azure blue
as I peer through my scarlet spandex
breathing deeply, guided by voices,
feeling alpha ninja, beta cirque du soleil
steeping through round bands, I thrust my
chest forward like a rooster strutting
across a barnyard, seeking adulation.

My crowd-pleasing performance elicits
oohs, aahs & awestruck approval, gasping
when I criss-crossing rings, clutching five
sacred loops aware of their trajectory as it
reflects on the river & mirrors precise actions,
wavering only when wind gusts distort
my glassy acrobatics in series ripples.