Played Out

Two acrylic circles

and a string wrapped tight,

hard against a firm thigh,

waiting in a pocket, the white

butterfly’s wings frozen,

splayed out, every nuance

of color, every flake of white

on a battered blue background

on display in a cotton cage,

contained since the paint was new, surfaces smooth.

The force of the unyielding circle

nearly unbearable

when thighs fold into a lap, until shifted

into a more comfortable place

Youth is braided into the string,

an invisible gossamer thread

spun of freedom and dreams,

mystery and magic holding it together

all these years. After the last comfortable position

becomesunceasing pressure,

threatening manhood,

the hand

surreptitiously

slides fingers

into the

fabric gaping open

at the hip,

working the toy to a place of escape,

drawing it out into azure air sparkling with sunlight,

fingers tracing the remnants of the butterfly, most of the intricate wings worn away by the friction of the pocket’s interior fabric.

The string is unspooled gently, then pulled tight and wound up, one finger finding the loop, sliding in with ease, pulling it into its crotch.

The skilled outward fling puts the butterfly in motion, flying on sparkling wings until the string snaps it back into the palm that repels it back for another spin through open air, rapid motion obscuring scars, divots a fluttering blur.

The return feels like it’s lagging, returning to

the palm at longer intervals

with less snap

until it’s just an old piece of plastic dangling from a deteriorating string

and the dog is walked one last time.

The string is wrapped around the butterfly,

and it finds a new home on a shelf with other relics of youth,

the grubby string tucked out of sight.