They are the only ones who make me move. I am the only one who can put them to a stop. Two hockey skates with sterling silver and a sharp blade. Two amongst the 24 skating on the ice. Two rancid boots that get filled with sweat. From the bench, I can smell them, but my coach tells me to focus on the game.
    Their speed is secret. They send savage signals to the Russians. They glide up and down and grab the ice between each stride and stop and clutter at the referee and never quit their whining. This is how they proceed.
    Let one forget his reason for being, they’d all coast like rollerblades, each amplifying more speed as they go. Faster, faster, faster they say when I skate. They inform.
    When I am too sweaty and too tired to keep skating, when I am a snow covered blade against the boards of hard wired plastic. When there is nothing left to gaze at on the rink. Two who skate against will. Two who flow and don’t forget to pause. Two whose only reason is to start and stop.