The sky is dark
when I push—
hard—the other boy
and his blonde bowl cut
streaming down fast
like eager ribbons to the ground.
Woodchips meet
his scrawny knees,
the soft thew
in the palms of his hands,
his ruddy cheeks.
I watch him,
small and pink—
my friends, far below,
scattering, sticky,
like raisins.