Untitled
Thin, frail, skinny arms
Long sleeve cotton in ninety degree weather arms
Hang down to your knees without bending over
“I Pick him”
A subtle arrogance in the way he holds the ball.
Poised, strong, assured,
Not me
He points to the last one standing.
This is me.
It is Spring. Sophomore year. Volleyball.
I know it is Spring because my arms are exposed.
At this point, I am not embarrassed by them.
.
Wilted, slumped, diffident arms
hang stationary as the ball looms over
Quietly, stubbornly
They protest my being picked last.
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