Mike Stone
 could walk on his hands
 and did every day
 with legs curved
 up and over his head
 he scurried down the hallway
 like a tiny shore bird
 weaving in and out
 between waves of students
 his shiny brown hair
 flapping like wings
 on each shoulder
 with every hand-step
 (until the teachers caught him
 and made him stop).

 Mike Stone
 could do a back flip
 just standing there
 could go across
 monkey bars
 like he was floating
 could slip under
 the barbed-wire fence
 to get the kick ball
 without the cows
 even blinking
 a baleful eye.

 Mike Stone,
 the shortest boy in school,
 did not grow
 two years in a row,
 but our gazes
 piled on him
 until he was a giant
 and once
 on a winter bus ride
 I watched him slip off
 his snowy mittens
 and shake out his
 sweaty fingers
 then lick each thumb
 with his small pink tongue
 and he sat there watching them steam.
 Then he turned in his seat,
 to face all of us,
 sticking up his thumbs
 with a lusty "Aaayyy!"
 and to our delight
 his thumbs smoked
 in the cold light,
 and we believed he was
 cooler than Fonzie.

                                   --Mary Beth Kwasek
 

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