Summer Camp

Sports socks tugged high like tall poppies, thin skyscrapers.

“Jack-of-all sorts,” Sir mutters, “Great all round.

Ticks boxes, pulls no punches, all positions.”

“Sings back-up,” scrawls Conductor, “Has nice sound.”

“The curse of mediocrity,” Mum mumbles.

“She’s good at everything,” her Teacher sighs.

“Not great, but capable, consistent.” Dad’s voice rumbles.

“Mid-range, fast, strong,” Camp Counselor implies.

“Shakes words down, shuffles, shucks, and pearly prints them,

crafts paragraphs that bite or sting like pain.”

In English dreams, her latent hopes lie inkling,

till B+ tears spin-wash them down the drain.

Some promise hangs on stars that don’t align.

Some stars, while burning, never find their shine.