AIR FOR MIKE LOVAS

When Michael J. stepped up to the board,

Everyone stopped to watch and wonder

At the ease and coordination of his show-

The way he stepped up to the place he more or less owned.

He’d do a little trot, already so free and loose-jointed.

You’d have thought such artistry would require

a more studied approach,

More caution and care in preparation for that

leap and float.

He must have been coached, we tried to explain,

In order to achieve such form, to fold, then open

With such balance, such grace,

Adding a last split-second twist to the flight and descent.

With such perfect knowledge of time and space.

At fourteen, it seemed almost unfair.

But missing him now, I recall the scorching days on end

At the neighborhood pool, where friends, liberated

from chores,

Gathered in hordes for purposes of exposure, to compare

flesh and limb,

To cool and chat, crowded exhibit in the welcoming air.

Still, in all that fullness, even without asking,

You couldn’t help but notice-

The place was never quite the same, even a little empty,

When Lovas wasn’t there.