GAME OVER KEN WOLFE
Mom says for me to get outside, get off my butt, to turn it off. Mom says I need to play with friends, to kick a ball, to socialize. Mom says my games will rot my brain, stunt my mind, render me friendless. Mom doesn’t know. She doesn’t play. In real life, I run laps. I wheeze, feet flapping, lungs blazing. I get passed, come in last, collapse. On screen, I run for miles. Heavy armor, massive rifles, wicked swords. I leap crazy far, crack the pavement with steady boots, Sword drawn, guns locked and loaded, Unleash dire consequences on demons and Nazis, one after another after another. All this without my inhaler. In real life, Mom says where I go and how quickly. My teacher says what I do and how quietly. My coach says how high I jump how many times. My enemies say what hallways I can use and when I can safely pee. My life submits to their whims. On screen, the whole world pauses for me when I move my thumb a millimeter and press a tiny button. then— Bullets hang, sizzling, in midair. Beasts balance silently on gargantuan hind legs.
14
POETRY
