Runnable (Poetry, First Draft)

“Is it runnable?” he’d ask, laughter in his eyes.
“I think so,” dropping my minicell foam kayaker into the narrow creek bed.

A monster drop looms ahead of my little grey boater.
I feel his heart leap into his throat as I watch him near the lip,
Floating around one rock, sliding around a twig jam.
The little boat lines itself up magically in the deepest flow of current
And bombs off the lip of the waterfall.

“You have to let the river show you where to go itself,” he instructed.
Commentary on my four inch kayaker replica
As it landed gracefully in the deep pool below.
“Finesse, style, patience: let those guide you. Those are what help you run rapids.”

I had listened intently, watching him rearrange the rocks in the creek.
He made tricky rapids, bigger hydraulics, swirling eddy lines,
A river in miniature; in he dropped his kayaker
Who ran the rapids expertly, as if it had been practiced in his dreams.

Now I think about it.
We had something in common once.
Something that brought and kept us together.
Life now requires so much more.
No more foam kayakers and garden afternoons.
No more style, finesse, and patience.
People put a premium on strength,
Because its easier to push things away.