pontacoloni

Michael Pontacoloni

Two Poems

Hydrant

I apologize for my arms. They are so short, these cold, blunt hexagons. I want only to hug, to squeeze. For now they hold back that surge. Hold it roiling below my shell. When the fire comes my rocket-like body will grow the smothering tentacles of a whale-destroying squid. When our whale has beached itself I will keep it wet until your tender triceps roll it back to sea. Street Hockey Sometimes the tennis ball would roll into the storm drain so I would lie on my stomach toes in the road and lift it out with a hockey stick. Once I dropped the stick in the drain. It’s still there now that I am strong enough to lift the grate.