Two boys marshal forces in the sand
a battleground earth easily molded
around the inflexible aggressive pose
frozen on their plastic soldiers.
Bored, they rise donning little stetsons,
boots and silver cap guns arguing who
gets to be the bad guy, for no fun will
be had until the first shot is fired.
Further disagreements relate to accuracy
and the order of forced, feigned death.
There'll be no injuns. Too many peanut
buttered lunches in front of the achro-
matic images of Tex Houston taught that
only armed white men were noble challenges.
An afternoon of dodge-ball, a weeding of
younger, slower, weaker by the swift and
strong whose reward is delivery of pain's
sting. An evening in slack jawed reverence
to tales from elders of the teaming of
men, the security of the padded uniform,
or the Ban Lon ducktailed fodder, Lucky
Strikes hammocked in shirtsleeves, the
secret society of the sucker punch and
hints of the promise of darker days.
Then on to sleep where dreams align with Mars.
"Happy people have no history" - French Proverb