Nobody truly knows why they run.
You’d have to study their lose-limbed ways
religiously, and for many days
before you recognised the rhythm
in the squealing, sticky-fingered hive
that is the playground, alive.
I was a child myself, you see, and
even I do not know why we ran.
Tree tag, net tag and British Bulldog,
building nests, constructing home bases
even the elusive kiss chases.
But if asked, I could never recount
how such antics came about,
or the names, or the faces
of those who, in their graces,
did charge us with our daily races.
We ran, never grew hot or tired,
never panted or ached in the chest,
our streamlined figures,
our unrestrained cries
– the sexless body so easily flies.
“I have a star!” cries the boy,
scrutinising the contents
of his companion’s pink palm
“what do you have to protekt?”
Oh just our heart and our health,
and our countries and our wealth,
for all our faith and our dreams
would give so easily at the seams
if we were to run.
