I ‘m standing on the platform, waiting
for the school train, eating a vending machine donut.
It cost 80 cents, my entire train fare, but no-one
checks tickets this early. A magpie hunts baubles
in the trash can nearby, the moon grins faintly
in a pale, grey morning sky.

Grown ups in dazes drift over the platform, heads buried
in newspapers and coffee. I pity them their pressed pants
and shiny shoes, oblivious to magpie and moon.
Try dunking in those clunky, grown up shoes of theirs.
I’m wearing Air Jordans, perfect for launching—
and I’m closer to the ring each season.

I have no idea that a middle-aged guy is watching me
from a leather recliner in the future, documenting
my fourteen year-old thoughts. But he is, and he knows
that I’ll dunk before the year’s out. Like he knows
what Miss Mitchell, the math substitute, will teach me
one hot afternoon in her car. He knows more about me
than I know of myself, and sits spinning it into a poem.

I hate poetry, it doesn’t make sense. Not like basketball
makes sense when the girls on the sidelines cheer. Standing
on the platform, my donut is sweet. The morning is warm,
and I can hear my train rolling in.

Ryan Stone