Monday, June 14, 2010

Popsicle Stick Races

Gentlemen, start your engines,
Get your bets and wagers in.
Grab your umbrellas,
Tell all the young fellas,
As the pop sickle stick races begin.

It used to be I relished days,
When all it did was rain.
You couldn't play sports,
In swimsuits or shorts,
But a pair of bare-feet,
And inclined streets,
Were sourses that could sure entertain.

I always collected popsicle sticks,
To satisfy rainy day thrills.
Stuffed in a cup,
I'd gather them up,
Run out the door,
In a virtual down pour,
And head up the closest street hill.

Both roadsides would soon come alive,
As rivers rushed toward sewer holes.
The current moved along,
Steady and strong,
Width only deterred,
By the height of the curb,
As its rapids pitched and rolled.

Sometimes it was hard to find,
The most perfect starting line.
But once decided,
I'd crouch down beside it,
Choose 2 contestants,
From my prized investments,
And readied them in precisioned time.

Sometimes I would pause and wait,
Hold back before I'd begin.
I'd build a small dam,
With the palm of my hand,
Plug up the flow,
And get ready to go,
And place my contestants in.

I'd silently start to count,
On your mark, get set, go.
With no hesitate,
I'd lift my palm gate,
The inevitable rush,
Of water would gush,
Propelling my race crafts to flow.

Down the hill the sticks would glide,
Slightly shifting from side to side.
Fluming the lane,
Undetered by rain,
Swiftly they made,
The first driveway,
As I imagined I was hanging five.

Staying their quested course,
My sticks would pick up speed.
They virtually flew,
Past driveway two,
Past a mailbox,
Under some trucks,
With stick two in the narrowest lead.

I would walk, bent to the side,
Making sure neither flared too wide.
One slight mistake,
An unchartered wake,
Could cause them to bound,
Or wash aground,
Or away with a passing tire's tide.

With the finish line now well in sight,
I'd run ahead and get positioned just right,
As the sticks would approach,
I'd get in a crouch,
Stand ready to defend,
The sewer's way in,
And spare them a "down the drain" plight.

It looks like a photo finish,
Who won this time's hard to tell.
One thing that's nice,
If you don't get it right,
You rescue your sticks,
Grab two brand new picks,
And head back up to the top of the hill.

Copyright © June 2010
Kevin Mooney


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