Never Making it to First Base

This is our game of rounders

Our bat, our ball

That’s our house just the other side of

                the wire fence

and that’s our mum

My mum

waving you over to join in

You could say, “No thank you,”

but you don’t

Do you think that because she

                knows your name

it entitles you to a relationship?

She’s my mum – not yours

I cross my fingers  and hope you will

drop the ball

but you don’t

You cup it in your hands as it falls

I wish that, bat in hand, you will miss

Thwack

The ball sails high, thudding into

                the grass beside the slide

Maybe you will trip as you run

Perhaps you won’t reach first base

but you skip the circle -

first, second, third and home

That’s my mum

hugging you

and now I feel a prickle of anxiety

Inadequate

I can’t catch the ball

or hit it when it’s my turn

Only sometimes do I get to first base

I pray to God to

                let the sun set quickly

                so the game can end

and you can go home

and I can go home

with my mum