twenty-eight
twenty-nine
twenty…
     a confused pause, a quick conference
     with a deeper voice—
thirty,
and i crouch behind the brown chair,
head bowed but neck turned, eyes wide on the place
where she will appear.
my whole life, i have hated this part, the
breathless silence after the counting, the
frantic beating in the brain, the stalking,
swishing tip-toe of socks, the pouncing,
never-knowing-when—the
unpredictable inevitable.
but the way we play
there is no breakneck dash for home.
whenever she finds me, curled up and twisted,
i am calm, my heart locked in its place,
beating a glad, redemptive rhythm.