The Reality Institute

Just a Game by Marty McCahill

The slug shrivels with the arrival of salt
I am God to the insects

The street lights are on
Time to go home
To rest our heads
With the things we have done

One o’clock, two o’clock’, three o’clock rock
In the pine, sweating and bleeding
Four o’clock, five o’clock’, six o’clock rock
I’m the ghost, I sit here waiting
Seven o’clock, eight o’clock, nine o’clock rock
My siblings have no idea what’s coming
Ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, midnight!
Madness ensues, pale white streak of kids
Of youth
A girl will shriek
A boy will be scared
Its too dark to be out and playing this late
The day was long; I rode my bike
Up into the woods again
Just don’t tell mom
I’m gathering wood for the fort I am building
Deep in the woods
So I can hide there in winter
Just like a squirrel
I’m always getting ready
For that thing that’s still coming,
Where are we going?


A mad dash back to the place
Where everything happens
And nothing is captured.

One Response to “Just a Game by Marty McCahill”

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