An Eighth Day


If we were given

an extra day,

would we play?


It if were announced,

a day that wouldn’t count

for acquisition,

a gift of food and air

and water,

a day when no one could

wage war

or victimize another,

would we play?


Would some say

not me,

I’m too urgent,

I have to impress,

nature to command,

so many things to hoard

and wielding bellicose conversation,

I will not play.


Well, go home, then.  You may

have a room in which to

exist; nothing

will work, and there will be

no toys.


Angels will referee, if need be,

though mainly they’ll be waiting

by the fields, near the water,

at the table in the

houses that have

family rooms


to help, to pass out balls and

gloves and discs that fly,

to spread out the board, play-cash,

and tokens

while everyone gets the piece

they want to play.


Everyone gets chosen

everyone feels first

everyone gets a turn;

agendas are released

and for a change, all genders

and colors are assets like

winning extra turns.


The cosmos will keep quiet,

slide over to tomorrow.

When it’s time, we’ll catch up fine.

After our eighth day

for play.


C L Couch



Nyla Moss, an eighth grader at Polaris Charter Academy, plays at Kells Park in Chicago’s West Humboldt Park neighborhood.

Andrew Gill/WBEZ

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