The shortest distance, a thin blue line.

Robinson, Matt

the shortest distance, a thin blue line

   there comes a point, you
   find yourself--between straps, between
   each wrist-shrugged lace tug and grip;
   between any of it and the thing that is
   to follow, in the bowels of pre-game or
   post--. you find yourself getting god awful and
   nostalgic, there, it comes, a point: you
   begin to foreshadow your own demise;
   realize you're simply breathing life into nothing
   more than your own retired backstory,
   and you are reduced, at these
   moments, to the cheap, gum-dusted rasp
   of your own finger's dry slide across
   a hockey carded-version of yourself.
   know the stats by heart, your fingerprints
   the smudging proof, these are your worst
   days. but then there is the ice.
   a cliche you wake into, all early
   morning, each and every, if you could, and
   at these moments there is no point
   to which you'll get. all is well again, your
   knee bends quick and strong; reactioned.
   but this is not--make no mistake--redemption;
   this is not romantic reclamation,
   no quaint internal waxing on the necessity
   of outdated corner board ads for long-dosed
   corner stores, no this
   is transference, end-of-intermission slick and
   simple, you take your boy's small chill
   pink hand: you grab his stick, and
   head for the car, already warming your spot.