An Old Starline Baton Brings Back Betsy Westake

She always knew too latewhen the epeleptic devil was on her heels:she froze in the seizure foreknown the shreddedmorning her memory flapping like a sheetsuddenly rotten ripped in strips that all could seestrewn through fifty miles of bare-limbed trees.Surprise surprise she’d soon become a namelessrag-o-bones of the Grand Mal mouth of pink foamkicking spitting on the floor of the lockered hall.

But on those Friday nights when she twirled,her batons turned into pure platinum wheelsdislodged from the chariot of Zeus.She ripped them off from Olympus broughtdown to the fifty-yard line her wildest loot.We saw her on the football fieldblur those hammered wandsin the sky sailing above the stadiumglare she spun them into rare iridium.

The demons fled that classic alchemy,the Father of the Muses reclinedenthroned with patience for his wheels’ return.And everyone in the distant bleacherssomehow knew her theft was hardest earned.The crowd of locals roared with wolf whistlesas our girl smacked and kicked aroundthe Maker of Surprise. She tossed her nearlyperfect revenge of nearly perfect balanceinto a greater dark where she could notpossibly see it whirl above the field lights.But as is destiny it came back spinning downand she would sweep it by its tail and let it flyagain to evaporate into the atmosphere unboundunknown where only moon could make it sparkle.Where did it go? It seemed to hang for yearswhile she waved to us in momentary cavalier.It came spinning down with her laughingup at the big lights tricked to make it most unclear--surprise surprise she never let it hit the ground.