or on a street; if it leans against
a lamp-post or a tree; if waves
wash it onto a beach, or a creek
dandles it as a boy jogs by,
he's sure to grab, and test
its weight—to slice it through the air
to hear its swoosh—
to whack it on a wall, smack it
on water, use it as a flail to hack
down weeds. He'll hurl it to see
how deep it stabs, how true
it flies. He'll bend it to see
if it springs back. He'll try it
as a staff or cane, though (yet)
he has no need of one.
He'll poke and pry, piñata-smash
some wasp-nest overhead,
or skewer empty air, ecstatic
he can reach so high.
If another boy has a stick,
they'll compare lengths,
then sword-fight to test their pith,
and their sticks' too.
"Who loves a good stick?"
the camp counselor asks his boys.
Arms lift like tules in the lake—
the nearest bare, the farthest back
furred with dark hair, as if they've just
left the deep woods,
or dropped from the high shelter
of trees.
