Playground

by Anna Kisby

There was no grass.
Alright, just one small rectangle
contained by a wall five bricks high.

It was so green
it shone, absurd as a garden pond
in the outback. It was forbidden.

When Bobby Braddock leapt over
and sprinted circles
whooping in grey shorts

he was returned from Sir
to class with a face wiped clean
of its grubby smile.

Our lesson in do not
aspire. That year, he moved
across the world to Perth.

A postcard travels hand to hand,
shows mountains meeting an ocean
we’re taught to call azure.