green circle

running in the green circle

surrounded by little boxes

we use sticks as swords

then the boy

threatens me with

tickle bombs, little buds

on flimsy stems.

if he hits me with enough

tickle bombs

he says I will

become defenseless,

incapacitated by tickles,

and then he can finish me off

with his deadfall dagger.

I think of the fuel wasted

and the pesticides dispersed

to maintain this half acre of

perfectly American monoculture

while appreciating

that the developers

did not squeeze

four or five more houses into this spot;

they knew that green has some value,

I suppose, although I’m sure

they amortized the loss of not building

across the profits of the

perfectly American monoculture housing

they did build.

I ask myself what else

this ground

might be used for

and of course I imagine

War

once again setting up shop

here in Northern Virginia;

I see the grassy circle marked off

into subsistence gardens for the

active adults who reside here;

there’d be no fuel to get to the grocery

and the supply chain would be a shambles,

anyway;

then troops, quartered in canvas tents,

marching in formation,

trampling the young corn, eating stolen

tomatoes that are truly ripened on the vine.

the child laughs, I chase him,

the ground has potential

but for the moment

the sky is clear, there is

cake and ice cream and joy

and love

waiting for us

with the baseball scores

and board games,

under electric lamps

and sheetrock ceilings.

I drink a glass of water,

rummage for a pill

to take the edge off of a headache;

make a note to stockpile ibuprofen

against certain uncertainty;

kiss the child on the head and

hold him close

for an extra heartbeat,

until he rushes away,

to his next

escape,

innocent

as a green circle.