Poem: Spitting Cherry Pits - Thomas Sabel

Technique was telling-
reaching the shoreline fifteen feet
down AND against the wind (Check
the windage Master Phelps! Aye, aye, sir);
the fear was aspiration. A cherry pit
Heimlich never the goal. A seasoned
champion and neophyte spitter (though you
wouldn’t have guessed who was who)
chewed the flesh to cleanse the pit, then
the deep inhalation, the kick of the hips and
whip of the neck— breath’s explosion
sends the red-stained seed aloft for distance gained.
Two out of three raised to three out of five
to best of seven till fruit’s all gone.
Title retained by three short inches--
the loser bows in gracious salute.
Such silly adults as friendship’s gained.