We played beyond
the tin middens,
ignoring the smelly trash
to set up the blanket tent,
and explore being
doctors and nurses
with bandages and dolls.
Or delegated the parts
for Friday night concerts
held at the tenement close.
Hunger was satiated
by the jelly piece
thrown with accuracy
from an upstairs window.
And bags of penny sweeties
from the corner shop,
washed down
with sugarallie water
that rotted the teeth.
As we grew bigger,
the games changed
to Kick the Can,
What’s the time, Mr Woolf?
and British Bulldog,
until we added another:
Kiss, Kick or Torture.
A different exploration
began – winching
in the hidden corners
of the back stairs.
But only so far.
The fear of God
and mammy’s wrath
keeping us virgo intacta
until another day.