by Stewart Alter
The boy wanted that badge
that could be pinned in the sky,
with its towering view
of the neighborhood he knew,
even of him there on the hill.
But as he ran back and forth
panting and pulling
and yanking on that string
he could not get his kite to fly.
Struggling to rise, it scooped
and jolted and stalled
and bounced back and forth
between invisible walls,
and just when it seemed
it was about to board
an upward current of air,
it overturned, a flailing
upside down
diving diamond.
The day was clear, the wind solid,
he had picked a high hill
in the park overlooking the harbor.
He had done everything right.
His mother had even let him tear
an old shirt to make a tail for the kite.
But why wasn’t it working
for him. There would be
no barely visible string,
connecting him up high
to that floating emblem,
balanced in the breeze.
Mom said try another day.
He didn’t think he would.
Ever.