Boys glisten like gold, wait
to skim waves streaking to shore.
Teenage twitchiness statue still
behind upright boards stuck in sand
like Spartan soldiers
resting on shields before battle.
I’m back north before last game
in an undefeated season. Tensed,
we prowl the locker room,
helmets and shoulder pads solemn
with the weight of armor.
Monk, Boom-Boom, Denny, Tarz,
a legion of lost brothers
amazingly still alive, still unaware
of the dazzling blizzard outside
and how we’ll win the day forever.
Golden boys will come to know
what we know, as ancient sailors
in the last hours of Atlantis knew—
that exquisite ache awaiting
moments that matter, a chance
to seize our best bright days
as the ebb and flow of waves
darken toward night, the moon
marking our time like the tide.