I pumped my arms hard
as the snowy drifts dragged on my feet.
Squeaks of friction,
nylon on nylon.
My father watched from the window,
proudly sending his
child off to war.

Beyond the driveway,
atop a small powder mound,
Satan in red nylon reared his head.
He pounded his chest and surveyed
the damage below:
a pile of challengers
in green, blue, purple.
Frustrated breaths wafted through the air.

I careened across the icy street;
I had no time to see the
Ford bearing down upon me.
My life was measured in seconds;
the wind nudged my small behind
a hair from
chrome and steel.

I stood in the street,
my chest heaving.
No words;
I was too young to understand
my father's imagination.
He ran to me in the street,
checked to see I wouldn't crumple suddenly.
He said I was a trooper,
and laughed so hard;
I've never heard anyone laugh like that.