The Three-Legged-Goose-Step March

The Three-Legged-Goose-Step March

That year we practised every lunch and break,
bound at the ankle by laces tugged from our football boots.
My left, his right. Left-right, left-right, chanted
past the Ronnie Biggs sneer and outstretched foot of the playground
bully,
our three-legged-goose-step marched around the cliques of girls,
the leagues of fourth-year boys, their taunts hyphenated with
invective.

Race day: shrill note, we lead from the start,
a blur of grass beneath the perfectly matched gait of our
plimsolls,
to cheers from the narrow, bum-polished benches,
we breach the winning-tape with half a length to spare.

Twelve months on, we deem it folly now to practise;
bound by repute to win. All boasts and elbows,
we jostle in our fourth-year gang and trade unfathomable glances with
the girls,
our lust as yet inchoate but palpable nonetheless.
We mock the playground bully having outgrown his cruel demands.
The chant this year: Dubcek! Dubcek! as Right and Left percolates into
our consciousness.

Race day: shrill note, we lead with disparate feet,
a scuff of grass across our knees as we stall and tumble.
Smarting from ironic laughter, we watch our victors meet the
tape.
Our lesson: Confidence, like Liberty can be hard to handle.