On the Playground
But here’s the thing: she likes to win. Oh, sure,
“competitive” is one of her put-downs,
along with “stuck-up,” “tries too hard,” and “sore
loser” . . . but did you ever notice how
she always rigs the game? You take your turn
and suddenly it’s “Thursday rules” or “you
said a word starting with p so you earn
only half-points” or “I was touching blue
when I said ‘no give-backs.’” Nobody likes
her, not really. She doesn’t even know
she’s pretty, you can tell. The hair? And my
cousin, he’s in her class, he tried to go
with her, tried to kiss her, and she just yelled,
“Gross! Boy’s germs! I’ll tell my dad, he’s your pal,
remember?” So immature. If they held
one of those big contests for who to call
the biggest spaz, they wouldn’t even let
her play, they’d say she was a pro — ineligible.
She thinks she’s so great. I bet
she wets the bed. I bet she goes to hell.
© Michael Fleming
Brattleboro, Vermont
February 2011
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