By Brenda Butka
Jet contrails tictactoe across the sky.
X marks killshots,
O is for bullseye,
no marks for near-misses.
Hopscotching toward the monkeybars,
tag you’re it for one teetertotter minute
of deficit attention. No marks
for near miss. No marks.
There should be no monopoly
on O’s and X’s.
Even bully boys throw down their toys
and head back home and hope
for hugs and kisses.
Brenda Butka practices medicine and poetry in Nashville. She has had poems published in numerous journals, including The Threepenny Review, Cortland Review, Slant, Alimentum, and others.