Pinsky, "The Game"

No ball, no rules.  Any one boy
On the cinder playground
Raises his hand and yells I Got It
And a few others chase him reaching
To touch him and the great
Game begins.

At first maybe four or five
Charge after him and one tags him
And yells I Got It and then more
Join the pack lunging ager the new
Leader, the pursued one
Who sprints and dodges, head-feints
Nearly out of breath, writhing
Out of reach.

No end, no score.
Thrill of the broken-field run in football, but
Pure: no boundaries, no goal.

No teams.  Aristocratic martial
Rhythm of anarchy and brilliance,
The one against the many:

I remember a heavyset boy named Carl
Who liked to keep the chain-link
Fence to his back, even
Leaning against it, side-faking or pulling

His chubby belly back, and every time a boy
Touched him, I Got It, Carl
Dancing tagged him back
With rope-a-dope hands I Got It
Back on the tagging arm, Carl
Unwinded at bay unyielding.

Sometimes the whole playground
Ran like one animal harrier
Streaming after you,
Challengers and thwarted in turn
Hounded and hounding, with grins
Like tired hounds.

And after the exhilarated spell
As the fox, the defiant
Scapegoat who dares all comers,

Always finally out of breath
You laugh and let yourself
Be touched, collapse thrilled
And exhausted to crouch panting
Hands on knees as you watch the herd
Speed on after the twisting shifting
Hero sooner or later always depleted
Of strength, unpetulant, capitulated
To the great ongoing
Entropy of the game.


Robert Pinsky

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