After seven years…
Back on the old school grounds.
It’s late.
I’m trespassing–
No one cares.
There’s some new equipment in the back playground:
Now, there’s a wooden tower, and a rope bridge.
If it were there seven years ago…
I would have played adventurer.
Standing at the tower’s peak,
I would have been mad when others intruded;
‘How dare they intrude into my fantasy?!’
Seems like people might call that ambition.
Drive for success.
They called it selfishness.
Lack of interpersonal skills.
I used to organize small groups,
Invent scenarios,
Play imagination games.
Leadership skills? Creative intelligence?
No.
Antisocial. Doesn’t play organized sports.
The older playground stays the same.
The jungle gym–the one I’d hang from,
Upside down–
How many hours did I stare at that upside-down steeple?
(They called it moping. Pouting. Brooding.
I call it a different point of view.)

They never did repair the fence;
The asphalt crumbled away from the base.
I’d perch on that edge for eternal minutes,
Pretend it was collapsing beneath my feet.
I’d turn and run, in slow-motion steps,
Seeing in my mind how the pavement would fall
Into empty eternities seconds behind my feet.
With my eyes closed, I’d hold my fantasy,
My adventure,
Until a child would hit me with a four-square ball.
And then I’d tell a teacher.
(Tattle-tale. Dislikes other students.)
“Why don’t you go play their game? Then they
           Won’t hit you.”

I never played their games.
I kept my private fancies–
Spared my dreams the execution of conformity.
And now, with all that seven years past,
They can
          only
                    wonder
                              why.