dictator on the blacktop

a crisp cold breeze
brushes his cal lick back
and forth,
swaying between his focused,
yet comfortable
eyes.
meeting with a mirror
image, only these rings
glaring with
the strongest desire
to swear out loud.
but he can't say certain
bad words.
he just
couldn't.

echoing from within his young brain,
rules to the game,
his rules.
he goes,
"underhand only,
no spuds on A,
tsunamis,
electric lines, shoe shiners,
magic box, bus stops, and tea parties
are ok. no rainbows
or re-do's,
and no cheap sutff!"
he chuckles as he rubs
his hands off on
the muddy rubber ball.
he has certain thoughts in his mind,
enough to encourage
the tattered at the knees
blue jeans
old sneaks,
pavement pounding nosebleeds.
this is where he gets greedy,
"A gets two dictatorships and
B,
gets one."

robins pluck out the worms
from the moist dirt,
eventually,
scared off by a charging
troop of children
shooting play guns.
what was i aiming for when i was younger?
i can't remember anymore.

"and that's not fair."
if he were to cheat,
who could stop him?
beyond the fence,
two dogs being walked on leases,
chained around their necks, bark
in each others faces,
drool, drenched
frustration.
instinctively proving something,
or at least trying.

before the sorry ones
could speak up;
"democracy,
who thinks that was out of bounds?
raise yours hands."
the bell rings.
it's too late.
some kids start to cry,
being all recess the loser.
preyed on by the one with the ball,
the two-timing, freckle faced gumdrop,
the dictator on the blacktop.
one to conquer them all.