Tell them life is like diving
into a ball bin!
at Showbiz Pizza—remember
pepperoni-breath and tomato-smudged
teeth and a netted square
to scoop you
from the mouth
of that yellow slide?
And all the skinny arms and legs,
like plastic wands foaming
crayola bubbles,
kicking out in welcome, reaching out to push down
into the rubber mat
underneath—
where colors whisper
knots of unknowing
—
bodies that as quickly squirm
up
to the crayon tiptop
and the ring tings of coin machines
and the animatronics singing
"Happy Birthday Sweet Marie!" above
the shrieking
and sometimes bleeding
young seeds
in the ball bin.
Tell them what there is to love
about
—and exhale on this word—Life
is not
the tie-dyed slap-bracelet you select
for yourself
after thirty-seven pac-man wins,
not the kit kat from dad you drink milk to earn,
nor the unwrapping exhilarate
(for all these moments flee, like sad plastic balls unnetted by hungry feet).
But what there is to love
is the dunk
into the greens and the oh-so-orange!
into deflated and triangulated once-were-spheres!
into tangled hairs and sticky hands
that steady
dizzy bodies
stacking like biscuit sheets!
And what there is to love
about life
needs the one look over the shoulder
and "Emmie!" you call
when your best friend leaves
for cake or nosedives
into the deep
deeponly to surface
by your side
before you
have time
to grieve.
