I arrive at the skate park before the abatement
of real skaters’ hangovers. I sweep away debris
that might sprawl a teen on concrete. I throw
away sandwich wrappers and empty beer cans.
By ten o’clock, guys show up who flip boards
like coins, and that’s when I flop my board back
in my Corolla and drive home. You see, I’d rather
break my wrist in private, which is what I think
I did last week, but haven’t confirmed with x-rays.
Knee pads and elbow pads and a helmet would
probably be a good idea, but I’m not in the mood
to afford those. My only wrist aches a little. I can
still push a broom, and there are brooms to push.