RUBBER

(for Austin ‘Superblue’ Lyons)

Aye, Austin, remember when we little black boys

and blue boys would cut and cut and cut the bark

of the rubber tree down in the gully; bleed the sap,

milky brown ‘laglee’, in a tin cup like a livestock

farmer milking his cattle's teat. Dry it in the tropic heat,

stretch thin and wrap and wrap and wrap into rubber

balls. Odd balls that would bounce and bounce and bounce

as with some super pogo power or a six million dollar bionic

man. In 'country' cricket, erratic, hit for six, would get lost

in the bushes and fielders would search and search and search

for the prodigal ball, like Oddfellows searching for a Holy Grail,

to no avail. Lost-ball win match for the side at the wicket

and the loser would run home with his bat, or his other ball

in his pocket, like a spoil-child. Then one day, while clearing

the bushes, you bounce up on the ball and it still good as ever,

still erratic, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing every which way

like a super pogo or six million dollar man, googlie, swinging

from side to side, wicked, knocking down young boy wicket

with venom like a Midnight Robber.

Aye , Austin, we can't afford to lose this match

or lose this ball again.

©2013 by G. Newton V. Chance