when i was 10 years old
me & chris found
a discarded door in the woods
& some cinderblocks
among a heap of garbage
& we made a makeshift ramp
in a nearby overgrown lot
& we spent sunday afternoon
jumping it w/ our second-hand bikes
we often fell when we descended
skinning our knees & elbows
on cracked pavement
bruises all over our bodies
a bloody lip and nose
slivers of busted beer bottles
stuck in our skin
beneath ripped, greasy t-shirts
but we straightened our handlebars
adjusted our crooked seats
set the chains back in their metal teeth
& began again
mounting that magic battered door
over & over
crashing thru the weeds
laughing as we each tumbled
our young shapes
flowering w/ purple welts
that at least did not come from
the heels or fists
or belts of our fathers