The Playground of the Dead

Do we take a hearse back to childhood

on the playground of the dead,

a dreamland of bats and balls,

wickets and mallets?

(I have heard that memory and soul

are immortal,

truer than blood or bone.)

The new kids come in droves,

shedding their cares and corpses,

their hates and hang-ups.

Ring-around-the-rosy and “London Bridge”

have their old importance again.

Pin the wing on the angel,

who turns out to be the boy next door

we were always at war with.

No crazy killer goes through the open gate

with grenade and gun.

“Come to the playground of the dead,” we sing,

swinging from the bars of the jungle gym.

And sooner or later, everyone comes.