Paul? Yes Mrs Heinz. You were late today. Yes Mrs Heinz. We've discussed this before so I'd like you to stay in at recess and write the class a poem But.. Then tomorrow you can read it to us. But.. That'll be all for now. Take your seat please. Yes Mrs Heinz. Playground Marbles I have the most. And I am the best. And I am brave. I am the best marble player in school. I keep my playground marbles in a drawstring pouch. The pouch looks like bit-o-honey or captain crunch or the color of the sun sitting in a wheat field. During recess we all run out to play. The playground is asphalt. Where the asphalt ends and before the grass begins there is good even dirt. This is where we dig. And we dig to catch the marbles. And we dig to see who's best. The hole we dig is the size of a tuna can. The Earth is soft and brown like my Mother's hair. In my pouch I have purees and steelies and cats-eyes and swirlies. I have rubies and greenies and blues. I have the most. And I am the best. And I am brave. On my stomach and in the dirt my fingers are perfect. And they know who invented marbles. And they know the answer to the capital of Vermont. And they know long division. And they know the right thing to say when Dad asks why you haven't finished raking all the leaves yet (middle finger extended). Then one day that little weasel Andy Eyerise stole my marble pouch. I ran to Mrs Heinz but all she said was "take your seat please". Now all my marbles are gone and I have to go home and explain to my Dad that all the marbles he bought me are gone. And I am not brave anymore. School day done head hung low homeward I trudged. Kicking rocks and praying my father would be out I found him sitting at the kitchen table eating creamed hamburger on toast he called shit-on-a-shingle. Hoping to pass unnoticed I also prayed for invisibility. And he stopped eating his favorite meal. And he looked up. And he looked me in the eye. And God can see where you are weak. And my Father asked "where are all your marbles"? And I told him. And he said "rest your hand on the table palm up". And he walked out of the kitchen and down the basement steps. Moments later he returned holding his hands behind his back and said "pick one". I wished for steelies or rubies. In a way both hands held something steel and something red. And I picked his left-hand because he was a lefty. And the glint of metal reminded me of the special fillet knives he kept in the basement. And I've always thought my thin white scar looked like a crooked little smile. You asked me for a poem. And all I brought you was a handful of pain. Two for flinching.