Saturday at the School Ice Rink
The playground floods into a sheet of thin ice,
a green wooden warming house edges the rink,
heater inside — smells of oil, damp wool, candy.
We carry our skates,
laces knotted together, draped around our necks.
We kick off our boots,
lace up our skates tight,
stash our boots under the low bench.
Mr. B. sells candy behind a makeshift counter:
Raisinets, red licorice, Milk Duds.
Music crackles from the loudspeaker outside.
We skate clockwise, circle the rink,
blades carve ice, spin, push off again.
Skate tricks take center,
where the ice spreads wide and open.
We clomp across the wood floor,
press our wet mittens to the heater.
Hands thaw, mittens dry.
We skate all afternoon.
At night, the older kids hold hands,
glide around to a waltz.
Cheeks red with cold,
legs tired,
joy fills our bones.
REVISED 3/4/2026
We Could Skate All Day
The fire department floods
the school playground
into a sheet of thin ice for winter.
A green wooden warming house
leans at the edge.
Inside it breathes oil heat and wet wool.
Neighborhood kids,
we walk to school on Saturday,
skates slung around our necks,
laces knotted, blades bump against our chests.
Boots thud to the floor.
We pull laces tight until our ankles tingle.
Stow boots under the wood benches.
At the candy counter, Mr. B slides boxes
of Raisinets, red ropes of licorice, and Milk Duds
in exchange for our nickels and dimes.
Outside a speaker blares tinny music
that crackles across the rink.
We skate clockwise at first
in slow circles.
Blades scrape snow dust across the ice.
Someone skates backwards,
another shoots to the center
to spin in the wide-open space.
We clomp back in to warm up,
mittens steam against the heater,
our fingers tingle back to life.
All afternoon we circle
the hard skin of ice,
practice figure eights.
When day turns to dusk
we change into our boots
to walk home.
Cheeks burn,
legs wobble,
ankles throb,
still tracing lines in the ice.