From the tip of the turret our kite
sends a desparate message.
The string, invisible, vines up
and coils the stones and the concrete.
We can still roam naked –
two comrades in penury
co-sharer of the kite that has
left us for the great height.
We visit the ground everyday.
The kite thins out from existence,
and then, on the day following,
we fly another kite, red and white.
“This fella can win a competition.”
You say. We can win a medal
as long as we dream.
In this reverie we wear
one pair of jeans on the podium,
sharing its legs. Our other legs
know the wind and
the ways of the ground.
Ilustration Nick Victor
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