The Crossover

Gym class

is supposed to be about balls:

volleyballs, basketballs, softballs,

soccer balls—sometimes sit-ups

and always sweat.

But today Mr. Lane tells

us not to dress out.

He’s standing in front of the class,

a dummy laid out on the floor,

plastic, faceless, torso cut in half.

I’m not paying attention

to anything he’s saying

or to the dummy

because

I’m watching Jordan pass notes

to Miss Sweet Tea. And I

wonder what’s in the notes.

Josh, why don’t you come up

and assist me.

What? Huh?

The class snickers,

and before I know it

I’m tilting the dummy’s head back,

pinching his nose,

blowing in his mouth,

and pumping his chest

thirty times.

All the while

thinking that if life is really fair

one day I’ll be the one

writing notes to some sweet girl

and JB will have to squash his lips

on some dummy’s sweaty mouth.