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  • Noah Renn

Ode to the football cleats abandoned near the faculty lot at Norview High School

Updated: Sep 25, 2023

By Noah Renn

I see you

every afternoon

bodiless,

claws of yeti shed for fall.


I see you

every morning.

Two Vicodin for a giant.

I swallow the idea

of leaving anything behind.


Two dead doves,

the broke-off teeth of megalodon,

discarded dragon spikes,

you are testament to the power of bouncing the fuck out

when a body says, I am done with this game.


I imagine a cartoon cloud of dust.

You, floating down like gull feathers on piano notes,

the running back, a blue laser beam down Philpotts Rd.

Snowy owls at rest,

huge, used Q-tip tips,

gauze-wrapped hands, amputated.

Dropped halves of an Italian grinder,

butcher paper slightly unfurled,

the diner, now hungry for something else.


What shoes was I wearing

when I quit my first job?

When I could no longer stand

that bald asshole in his kitchen crocs?


When there are no clouds

and the sun falls at mythical angles,

you are Mercury’s sandals.


Even now I am resisting the urge

to drop my tie and loafers,

to turn around and just fly.





 

Noah Renn has lived as a working writer and educator in Southeastern Virginia for over 15 years. His poetry and nonfiction can be found in various publications both online and in print, and his chapbook, Sinking City, was published in 2019 from Finishing Line Press. He currently leads a poetry workshop at the nonprofit literary organization, The Muse Writers Center, in Norfolk, Virginia.



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