Playground Poem by Daniel Y.

A green rubber ball
gives jovial joy
to the well inhibited child
who makes a grin from ear to ear
in the face of the frightening wild.
The jump and bounce and naming trounce
give rise to many bruises.
A childhood life done proper.

But pride is sore
and angered more.
A losers wound
drags winners down.
“It isn’t fair”
“he tugged my hair”
the rules are bent and broken.
We make it so,
or so it seems,
to the child dis-encouraged.

The curb is not made to trick your feet.
The curb is there to mark the street.