Kids play with explosions everyday.
They sell it like giants scouring for delicious little
mortals, pupils dilated with thick curiosity.
In the sandbox, passing grains to their crushes ears for one little
look; the beauty in the exercise for attention.
In the streets, slipping cops who guess if their checks
match the worth of their kids’ school.
In the house, standing in front of a blaring TV
with jarring images of the dead and rich.
They don’t have time for the dull exposition of
who is more free?
They are hooked like fish to their little
fires, too busy playing to see themselves
choking on the smoke.
Let them.
Let them sprint to the other side of the parlor before someone
knocks, (an explosion!),
and their mother tells them to answer.