Ouch I Think Daring Not To Say It
Ideas are brewing, in the air, in my hair.
Walking up my neck, whispering in my left ear.
I am at work.
Inopportune time.
I agree to take wild man.
Wild man is six.
Behaves more feral than my imagination.
I am a saint, the teacher whispers.
She is at the end of her rope.
He is a runner.
He is fast.
He has no limits.
I get him to my office
Strategically place my chair
In front of the door which I lock.
He does not notice.
Plays with all of my toys
Singing to himself.
Throws balls at me now.
Four of them.
My own balls.
I have glass walls.
People can see.
They all think I am a saint for taking him.
I am a writing fool,
Writing this as he throws the balls and laughs.
Ouch, I think.
Daring not to say it.
For this might delight him
And then he will begin throwing other things.
I sit here, writing, looking like an angel for taking this other angel.
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