Hula Hoop
by Mary M Payne
Neon pink,
citron yellow
tangy orange…
hula hoops , a crazed
haze of hula hoops
100 million of ‘em…
They had to have one
or two….or three
which was probably
reason enough
that her pleas were ignored
and she went on lusting,
borrowing from friends
who by now were weary
of standing apart
gyrating adolescent hips
to some inner slide guitar.
Months later
after she had wisely
ceased beseeching,
her father emerged from
his chaotic tangle
of a workshop
with a serious hoop,
begot from garden hose
and a wooden dowel,
an inspired marriage..
perfectly balanced
easy to spin.
And she became
the neighborhood champion
for minutes in the air.
But her bemused
hypnotic pleasure
of endless swivels
inspired suspicion.
Was it a trick?
Maybe that wizard of a man
gave the hoop a
special mojo
for endless twirling.
It looks so easy.
but then,
“Can I try that one?”
the constant refrain in the street
under flickering lamps
on a mid summer evening
1958, middle America.
Not glam like the others
not translucent nor Crayon colored
no beads inside to jingle
when she spun.
Her hoop was sturdy
and strong
and sober.
Her hoop was black, mat black
avant garde even
before black was “cool”
and long before
she had begun to accept
that originality
would be the way
she would go.
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