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pontacoloni

Michael Pontacoloni
Two Poems

Hydrant

I apologize for my arms.
They are so short,
these cold, blunt
hexagons.

I want only to hug,
to squeeze.

For now they hold
back that surge.
Hold it roiling
below my shell.

When the fire comes
my rocket-like body

will grow the smothering tentacles
of a whale-destroying squid.

When our whale has beached itself
I will keep it wet

until your tender triceps
roll it back to sea.



Street Hockey

Sometimes
the tennis
ball would
roll into
the storm

drain so I
would lie on
my stomach
toes in the

road and lift
it out with
a hockey
stick. Once

I dropped the
stick in the
drain. It’s
still there now

that I am
strong enough
to lift the
grate.

     
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