behind her skirts
a babe in the midst of bull rushes
hiding behind the girls hoola-hooping
trying not to get my clothes grubby
is it luxury to feel four years old ?
a crime?
irrelevant to the matter at hand ?
the festival of the judges
is a riot of colours, styles, weapons, cults
machine gun pronouncements,
slipshod hangings, sentences, barren wastes of time
i peer out through a crack
to be nabbed by an unsteady moralist
who tells me to stand up and be counted
i scream
not my world
not my problem
i muff and swaddle myself
wishing to be a hippo in his mud
a two year old with his bright yellow plastic ducks
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