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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clcouch123 
September 11, 2018 at 4:46 am
An eighth day sounds wonderful. They way you write it, like one perfect day a week. While the other 7 are normal days, with work & with suffering, with reality. But that eighth day is like a dream.