Red Light, Green Light

A children’s game, to be sure, 
played on lawn, sidewalk, 
or ideally in the middle of the street 
when traffic abated. The leader

called out “Green Light,” 
during which a ragged group 
of ten-year-olds scrambled 
to overtake each other, until 
the words “Red Light” forced 
a stop. Those who kept going, 
hurtling on after the dictum, 
were ejected from the game.

We knew exactly when 
to run like hell across 
whatever terrain teased our feet, 
shod in red Keds, ready to go.

And we knew when to stop, 
to wait for the voice of It, 
a god of sorts, to halt us 
in our tracks. We stilled ourselves, 
often balancing on one foot, 
one leg rooted to the ground, 
the other extended in some strange 
ballet, under the wheeling dervishes 
of stars in the invisible twilight 
of summer.