Silver Baton
by Sylvia Cavanaugh
A thin layer of teenage fat
gives his muscles a more luscious curve
and with his blonde hair
he seems palomino
head tilted skyward
feet together
he straight-arms his baton
all the way from the football field
to autumn’s highest blue
a climbing twirl
cartwheeling its way up the stairway to heaven
end over end
an ascent of flash
scintillating the sun
my eyes wrap around those tensing thighs
pants the color of heavy cream
cling to all three of his dimensions
he desires men
this is the silence where my virginity paces
uneasy
winter’s close and we’re slouched low
in his dilapidated Mustang
fat dice swing over the dusty dashboard
ragtop pulled up tight
facing forward
he drives us into December’s descending night
at the reunion his body is emaciated
he can’t see much anymore
but still teaches baton lessons
a couple times a week
the bartender ignores us
Gyroscope Review !17