When we were young, I made up all our games.
Sometimes we were prowling jungle beasts
All snarl, my stripes drawn on with too expensive
Eyeliner and your spots, tiny planets of bursting rouge
Almost indistinguishable from the acne you’d have in three years.
Other times we were interstellar robots
And oh, what fun we have in our tinfoil spaceship
Blasting around a linoleum solar system from eight to ten
With only a quick stop for sandwiches on Mars.
Our weapons gleam plastic-bright as we air-pump them
Electric green and so advanced, but shaped like a young boy’s toy.
We make teepees of bed sheets and camp out in the Sahara,
I always the navigator, you always the bristling mercenary, protector with
(Of course, a heart of gold).
As we got older, our games change, I admit.
We can’t quite still fit in the bathtub
So both airplane and submarine remain ironically grounded.
But you don’t seem to mind when I use the
Same plot twist I did in last week’s scene, and
Even have the care to make your army man jump back a bit
As if a mirror of your eternal surprise. We’re not quite eight to ten anymore.
But maybe, when we’re both away, one day
We’ll crack open the trunk of your Hot-wheels bed
And fantasize the reactions when your Transformers
Meet My Little Ponies for the first
And last time.