The turn-around stick ...

Phoo,                           phoo, 

                     phoo,                        phoo

my feet on dust. 

                                Don't       look at them much –

                                                          only when 

                                                                             jumping the curb.

                                                                    Mostly I see my forward hand –

                                                       loose like a swollen jaw,

                                               dripping off the pinky,

                   a stalactite off my back-swing.

                                                                                Also the ground upcoming –

                                                                           six or seven strides ahead

                                                          is about right to plan for.

                                        And in my head, I see

             the turn-around stick.

Planted by the fresh black

                  asphalt patch, conspicuous

                                    as a skin graft, where

                                               I used to hear cars hit

                                                                                            thum...

                                                                           thum-thum...

                                                                                                  thum...

                                                                                             thum

some dodging, some not,

                    the crumpled hole.

              Its sound would call to me,

                             5 miles from home,                               “here you'll be

                                                                                    far enough, done.” 

                           And I could touch

                                   that stake, leave a finger-drop fresh

             on the wood.             Then, SHHhhhh...

The balls of two feet 

                                            semi-circling.

                             Ten toe-pads grab-grinding.

                                                      And in 

                                           my head,                            

                             home.