Eighty-Eight

By Martin Dejnicki

She finally decided,

to learn how to skate,

Why didn't she do it,

when she was just eight.

The sky was clear,

but expecting some flurries,

Falling on her behind,

were among her worst worries.

Her winter jacket,

was the sharpest of reds,

She found those rusty skates,

in one of her sheds.

As she cautiously stepped,

onto the ice of falls,

Sliding like a kid,

her memory recalls.

Her first move,

was nearly the splits,

The ice was ready,

for many more hits.

Her twisting and dancing,

she could not control,

Everyone's attention,

she naturally stole.

Frantically skating,

she couldn't just stop,

Not knowing whether,

to slide or to drop.

Waving and yelling,

she noticed her date,

They were both young,

just eighty-eight.

Artist Inge Look