The Kids

You see them everyday,

At the rusty playground playing on the crumpled swing set.

That little boy

with his hair tussled just so,

That little girl

watching as the boy soars higher,

how high will he go?

She could never go that high.

Giggles glide over glad faces,

The boy puts his boots in the sawdust to stop,

kicking up dust and mud to get dirty.

She looks at him with wanting wonder,

He looks through her

 to the other side of the playground.

The rusty old swing set no longer holds his interest.

Nor, it seems, can she.

The bell rings,

clinging and clanging like an old gong.

He races off.

She follows

slowly, looks back at the tired old swing set,

then races off to lag behind the boy that went so high.