His voice was loud and thick as it rumbled across the playground
and laid heavy on the light giggles of the “it,” “tagged,” and “free.”
“Free” left his freedom and seemed to carry all that heaviness on his shoulders;
it made his return climb over the playground fence twice as long as the climb to get in.
“Boy! I told you to leave that be, an I come home and it’s all knocked over!”
(What could it be? a fence? a drain pipe? a plant in the garden so dreadfully fallen?)
It was as large as the arm that held it high, as solid as his heart;
and it swung down to meet the little head that ducked and escaped into the house.
His head was missed, but he’s no longer in freedom.
Fear, anger and rebellion are locked into his little heart --
A heart that one day will equal the hardness of the stick
that’s as big as his own arm.
And my lips won’t be around to tell...
my parked car won’t be there to influence his arm to swerve
and miss his little boy’s head.
Marshall! What are you doing to your children?
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