|
Playtime will be Murder
by Marcus LaneWe sit cross-legged in the story corner
Breathing faint amonia smells.
Table chants and hymns blend in corridor confusion:
All creatures great and small.
We are wedged in a tangle of podgy thighs,
Grazed knees, scabs and warts.
And Anthony is sitting alone again
Where he can do no harm.
Yet he said he would bring it, and bring it he has.
Its tiny white head is nosing over
The hem of his pocket,
Whiskers a-twitch and
Eyes like tiny blood blisters ripe for popping.
A cascade of shivering whispers and
Nervous heads are half turned.
Yes, Anthony is smiling his smile.
Mrs Lloyd has found the page,
My lids are squeezed tight
As I urge my thoughts to follow her away
From here, from now.
For playtime will be murder once again.
07/18/2010 Posted on 07/18/2010
Copyright © 2024 Marcus Lane
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Matthew Sharp on 07/18/10 at 08:23 AM awesome piece! great imagery, eye's like blood blisters....wow |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 07/18/10 at 05:05 PM Amazing write Marcus. How many of us are already playing and don't know it? And how many of us refuse to go to play time? Again wonderful write. |
| Posted by Linda Fuller on 07/18/10 at 06:34 PM What a fun, creepy poem - I just love this. |
| Posted by Darren Swift on 07/18/10 at 08:38 PM I really enjoyed this - REALLY enjoyed this - it took me right back to the time I had my grass snake - in school - in assembly! And got caught... cool write. well done for evoking. D |
|
