The Game

A poem about resilience, grit, and learning when to get back on the ride

Playground politics, golden hour; Photo by Jess Zoerb on Unsplash

Content Note: This one has teeth (strong language)!

Sometimes life really is just one big playground.
The trick is remembering who brings the lemons — and who adds the sugar.

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Just doing my thing.
Trying to jump on this already-spinning merry-go-round…
Clear space ahead.
I’m running. Picking up speed.
I leap cleanly.
Then rebound off your suddenly-there self.

Don’t you love it when someone sees where you’re aiming and decides to get there before you can?
Not that they didn’t have a spot.
They just wanted yours, too.

Fucker.
That’s okay.
I dust myself off, shake off the concussion.
Scan for another open spot.
But I’m eying you.
You—over there—busy staring at your nails.
Okay.
I can do this.

I see a spot. It’s just my size, too.
I start running.
Glancing your way every few steps.
Still staring at your nails.
I leap HUGE!
I’m taking this spot.
Until I find myself back in the dirt.
Skin-scraped from ankles to chin.

See you laughing.
Looking away.
Okay.
Fucker.
Two can play at this.
Mama didn’t raise no bitch.
I stalk off.
See you pointing at me.
And laughing hard.

Smoothly flip the bird.
As I turn the corner.

Go home.
Mama at the counter.
Making lemonade.
Sees me.
Hands me a washcloth.
No word spoken.
Just so.

I grab my cleats.
Lace them up.
Knee braces, too.
Accidents happen.
Best to be prepared.

Back in the kitchen.
Lemonade to go.
Back at the park.
I sit.
Sip my drink.
Slowly.

Suddenly you’re in my face.
“Gimme that.”
“No.”
“I said, GIMME THAT!”
Kick—Snatch.
Fucker!

I run for the ride.
Jump clean into place.
Staring down as you gulp it in one.
And spit it all out.
Coughing and hacking.
Face all scrunched up.
Like a spitball, wadded.

Oops.

Guess I forgot the sugar.

So. Many. Lemons.
Water optional.

Sour drink for a sour fucker.
Your mom steps out then.
Calls you home.
Sounds angry.
I settle in for the ride.

Tomorrow another day.

Sure, you’ll be back.

So will I.

That’s why we call it the game.

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The trick isn’t in winning. It’s in showing up again, eyes open, ready for whatever comes next. — Liora

Thanks for reading this poem. If my work here speaks to you and you’d like to support it:
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– Grab my chapbook — Through the Fire, Vol. I is out now on Amazon, premium print + digital.

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