Sack of Mashed Potatoes

By
De Trav

Breath and blood roar
At the same level and beat.
Toes feel the rotten(!) rock
Fingertips burn small ledges.
Veins in throbbing forearms
Pulse and expand
As agonizing fatigue seeps.

Pumped.

I look up.
Two moves to heaven
Blocked by polished marble
And flaming arches.

I look down.
My last piece of mind taunting
From 15 feet under
As rope slaps blank wall
And wind curls around chalk bag.

On the back of lids
I see the sandy, slopey hold.
I see the slow delicate move.
Here comes Elvis.

Heaven it is.

Sliding breath echoes and shivers in helmet.
Blood river sings from shadowy canyon.
Matching hands reach up
And palm sandy rock.
Gear quietly clinks.
Tip of shoe finds balance on a grain.
Sparks through toes and fingers…
I slowly stand up and…

OH NO

Body tilts sideways
Old holds flash past
I hear my sack of mashed potatoes
HIT

White speckles on darkening gray
Silently, then
Every nerve SCREAMS bright red.