Field day was fun
in the fifth grade.
They carted us off
to a camp in the woods
for elementary parole.
Team-building tests
trust falls
obstacle courses
designed by smiling sadists
cleverly disguised as teenage camp counselors;
it was enough to fill a postcard to parents
though we'd be returning that afternoon.

I was dressed in camouflage--
full paramilitary regalia
to sate my inner Rambo.
The girl who'd taught me
how to use a combination lock
was on an opposing faction
poking her tongue my way
when applicable.
She's married with a baby now.
Her tongue has been retired.

There's one event
that's stuck in my head
like that witty reply
that comes to you
hours later
in the shower
too little too late
for the maelstrom.
We'd been tasked with creating
a device out of nature--
forest floor detritus
rigged to shield an egg
which the Powers That Were
would drop from ten feet.

My team was ill-fated.
No amalgamation
of leaves, vines, and moss
would protect our doomed yolk.
Not even that clever girl
who knew of locks
and other adult things
could figure out the riddle.

Cracked shells and yellow abortions
littered the ground
as the sun set on a day
that most have since forgotten
while now, before an omelette
the camo's deemed transparent:

It's not about the scorecard
but boarding that bus home.

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