Or the Mohawk kids
Who threw knives at each other’s feet,
Trying to get as close as they could without breaking the skin.
And the winner was always the one with bloody feet.

Our games were more civilized.
In the twilight, when it was too dark for baseball,
We would meet in the empty lot down by the river.
While the rest of us would close our eyes,

The oldest kid would throw a long stick as far as he could,
And then the rest would go looking for it.
The thrower, out of this round, would tell us whether we were getting
Hotter or colder as we searched the knee-high grass.

The first kid to find it would yell “Hot ass,”
And then have the right to whack on the behind any kid he could catch
As we raced back to touch a tree which was our haven.
Woe to the fat slow kid,

Whose only defense was yelling out “Hot ass,’
Even if he didn’t find the stick,
So that the other kids would start running away
And give him a few more moments to locate it himself.

And thus we learned the basic rules of life.
You win by inflicting pain.
You lose by receiving pain.
And only fraud gives you a chance.

© Ron Yazinksi, 2010

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