The Play-Dough Eaters

They chirp and giggle with endless verve. Wild
fingers flashing they furrow, frown and fart

with abandon. Around pastel monuments to sitting
they dervish. Rhythmless save for the raw pounding

rhythm of bare feet on manicured grass. Speechless
save for the unseasoned speech of breathless laughter.


I, clutched by the years’ legerdemain, perched on
the fence stare strange eyed at home and the peris

on my lawn, I, am a strange bird, surely, to these clear
eyed individuals. Bent backed I weave my way past

their table, ignoring their undulating cries. But they
run to me, clinging like barnacles, luring me to

their board. I collapse, high kneed into pastel chair,

as they vortex around me, my brief case disappeared.
My tie dissolved. They are gathered now, standing and

in chairs. One produces a tawny cylinder. Solemnly, one
produces a plastic press, another a knife purple as a concord

grape. Like clockwork, they press the shapeless jade mound.
The Knife, rising like a lightning rod, slices a piece for me.

Green star in my palm, they stare open mouthed, waiting
to see it pressed into the soft flesh of my tongue. I bite

I chew and I swallow and wonder, as the cackling reaches
crescendo, why leave? Outside my gate I wander wearily.

Why not give up the fear, of sod on sock-less feet?