If I could be a marble in a bag around a child’s waist
propounding challenge to my peers like an alchemist
whose recipe for destruction lay in my bulging satchel
filled with conquests found in the sandpit battlefield
of my childhood playground, dominated by concentrated
versions of precisely aimed shots using one inch of glass
and stick drawn circles of boundaries no other should cross.
If I were a marble in a sack around my childhood waist
I would be a peerie of blue green that made them lose
as they wondered at my ocean colors splashing their spirits free
through the distractions of the wildly colored cat’s eyes
that stared back at them with deadened stares emptied
of life, unlike me, who shined and waved like the open sea
And they would avoid hitting me with their knocker’s sin
because who doesn’t want Mother Ocean to win?