On the playground
near the picnic tables
we'll be the best of friends
until the game is up,
the sun retreats
and shadows break hard
over boundaries
once so easy to discern.
Still, the rules are there
to be ignored,
like homework on the slate board.
Players in a seasonal pageant, .
we are. The children
of our own misgivings.
Soon enough the voices call
announcing curfew for us all
and they are not so easily deflected.
So, will I turn the table over,
scattering plastic slugs
and penalty cards before
I concede to defeat?
There is no tally of the score.
I won't regret another loss.
The end is simply preordained
and it's always fun and friendly
until everyone gets hurt.
