...Trampoline...

I am a boundless wonder what 

would happen should I fall, 

yet though this boney mass 

is doomed to hence collapse, 

I rise from bulbous ass, alas 

in attempt to bound again. 

Oh, and again. 

Yes, and again, 

though in truth, 

I gain at nothing. 

This life as zenith unto nadir, 

the wave which crests 

   before its trough. 

There below, I come to sink. 

There within, I come to swim. 

Forever born as flitting fish 

of whose scales evolve 

to feathered wing 

and there lift fowl aflight. 

Only to return anew to 

that fickle flounder 

of my nubile futile nature. 

Symbiotic oasis in 

aquatic aery stasis. 

Last spring unsprang, now sprung, 

though our lust precipitous, 

who of us would dare 

to merely stand upon 

a stagnant trampoline?

Who of us could resist the urge 

to launch into that vacant void 

which beckons ‘bove our heads? 

To heave and hurl awhirl with 

such furlough of abandon, 

ascent soon spent at apogee, 

for gravity grows grave gravitas  

as perigee comes to follow. 

The hurt before the spurt. 

The colic which follows the frolic. 

The somersault spasm that  

   collides with orgasm. 

Tra la, la-la la, trampoline! 

One can truly love a trampoline, 

but cannot love one another upon 

such ecstatic spastic elastic, when 

outcomes turn to titillated trauma. 

In truth, 

there can be only one, minus one, 

for two a-dash and pudenda bashed 

are often left bereft. 

Nay, but upon pained 

procreation cessation, 

that which came to rise, 

soon comes to plunge. 

For though we bound 

to climax together, 

we are woefully bound to fall. 

Each clammy crescendo 

a dunce denouement. 

Each moist meridian 

a dive into deep abyss. 

Folly la-la trampoline. 

We collide a la limb akimbo, 

and unplumbed succumb to fandango, 

for amidst said conjugal collision, 

we are bound 

to bond hip to hip 

with cervical certitude. 

And we plummet to concave canvas, 

toe to toe tossed taunt trampoline. 

And we bounce beatific and buoyant 

like bandied about bombardiers, 

there to detonate mind’s eye 

succumbed circumcision 

via mutually assured 

revulsion. 

Tra-la la-la la-la la-la 

tramp…o…line

obscene. 

Ó2018 Jack David Hubbell