Hymn to Technique
Tell me who they are, the handsome lads
tossing a frisbee in a sunny field.
One of them hugs it to his side and hurls
a perfect centrifugal puck across the day.
Tell me who they are, for to see his friend
receive and hoick it back is to learn
of a mirror’s unerring bounce and to gawp
at the angular swing of a carpenter’s saw.
Now one of them sends a tennis ball so high
it could bother a kestrel’s lofty mooch.
It falls to a stretching hand and – oh – their shirts
are off, their abs are tanned and brassy-firm.
The type of boys who’d pick a watch’s guts
for fun and put them back.
That moody kestrel snared, they’d have it hunt
a bunny for their pot.