poem

The treasurer we had to have
has finished his play lunch,
come out of recess,
and rolled the Prime Minister,
who was still Prime Minister
because he wouldn't stop playing
'til he had egg on his face.

Our let's pretend leader
is chosen from ego trips and power struggles.
Maybe by lunchtime
the head prefect will come back
with the fresh milk
and we'll get on with
learning to live with each other
again. Remember? Oh, yeah.

On the other side of the playground
the other team is throwing its privatised ball around,
doing warm-ups.
It's a problem.
If they win this time
the school might close down,
and we'll all have to go home . . .
if we still have one.
It's a worry, but not a big one.
That's what they say in The Alice.

My friend said,
"Let's go down to the shelter shed
and sneak one
last
tax free
cigarette.
Let's get sick
before it's too late."
I said, "I don't want to play."