Where there are no children, there is no sound,
no toys, no stones, no girls, no boys, no rules;
there are no exit wounds on the playground,
no secrets can be spilt from mouths unbound
by oaths of blood and spit and ridicule;
where there are no children, there is no sound
like song, no crowing calls, no laughter drowned
by pupils sharpened into surgeon’s tools.
There are no exit wounds on the playground
and shameful explanations just confound
the comfort sought. Steel swings and slides are cruel
where there are no children. There is no sound,
stale air turns slate as darkness creeps around
the shadows cast by flagpole, fence, and school;
there are no exit wounds on the playground
but we know where they are. They can be found
by databases, statisticians, fools.
Where there are no children, there is no sound;
there are no exit wounds on the playground.