"Pow! Pow!"

In those games I was a Western Cowboy,

doing that strange, centaur thing

of shooting “Pow! Pow!” from both hands

with legs simulating the canter

of no horse ever seen, not even

on the picture ranch

in Hollywood.

 

South Park in a Northern Town,

not the Red Rec at all,

but doubtless paid for by

some of the Pease Dynasty’s

fortune that I thought

had something to do

with that other famous Northern

delicacy.

 

Sometimes the bandstand was Fort Apache,

as long as the parky wasn’t around.

On sight of the black uniform,

it became Schloss Adler

and we were Eagles Who Daren’t.

If you squinted he looked like Hitler

in the same way Blakey from

On the Buses did.

 

So we played war, sometimes,

throwing pretend grenades

that we knew from

the Battle Picture Library

were really called Mills Bombs,

or potato mashers, if it was

your turn to be Jerry.

 

But mostly it was Cowboys

and - what? Indigenous People?

Sometimes, the fat kid got to be Custer,

when we fancied a change of perspective.

We are what our childhood makes of us.

Perhaps games are kinder now,

but I suspect the enemy

is still the other.