Things used to be so important.

A game was not just a game:
it was
a test of your
brute strength
or wits
making order of
jumbled pieces like
a quantum physicist
sketching out
a theory
of everything.

An evening in
playing with bath bubbles
learning a new word
drawing a horse better
than ever before
while the sunshine outside
drawled coolly to an end
meant perfect harmony,
harm within these walls
impossible.

A fickle insult was
for one volcanic moment
the end of all
that is safe and good
in the world
a crashing down of
the edifice of one’s worth
a vortex draining
all hope away.

A birthday was one giant’s step
forward closer to the
golden land of the grown-ups
a tattoo of distinction from
the sweetness of being small
little knowing that when they arrive
how dusty and distracted they’ll be
and longing for
another go on the ropeswing.