but ours wasn't
three-quarters was
but one corner extended beyond the boards
to form a small forgotten patch of ice
we spent hours here
dreaming lord stanley dreams
while kicking reclaimed pucks with hand-me-down winter boots
the echo of a puck off the outside of the boards
the cold smell of perma-sweat
stopping to watch the zamboni driver
a god in the world of small-town rinks
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