Fools

‘What I longed for was to go to the city in the south, the one that people in the village always talked about:

“Just think, there are people there who never sleep!”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re never tired.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re fools.”

“Don’t fools ever get tired?”

“How can fools get tired?”’

-Children on a Country Road, Franz Kafka

We sit cross-legged in the sprawling field

a few metres from the barren track,

and the sun is floating merrily down

to its put-away in the cosmic cask,

some of the others still messing about,

and we hastily begin to unpack.

The day was warm and fated to end,

and our mothers have packed us the snacks

we open, and smell, and sample, and laugh

as we pass round in the metal flasks.

Some of the others have brought a ball and kick it

to some others who kick it right back.

The grass underneath our bums is bright

green and itchy, and we squirm, grow damp.

Across from me, you mention your family

sometimes would come around here to camp,

and I am in love with you but haven’t said it

yet, and our legs are starting to cramp

so, we stretch out and I watch you raise

your sandwich over and over up to your mouth,

and I am wishing I was a sandwich when

you tell me you’re longing for the city in the South.

Which one?

“The one that people in the village always talked about”

When ether darkens, we shuffle down and lie

side by side on the hill,

and some of the others have sprinted home,

and some are playing still,

and some insects are being eaten by

the nocturnal lizards and things,

and you turn to me and smile, big smile,

and your mouth is still full of teeth,

and I think about those fools in the city

you describe who never sleep.

And I wish we were in that city now,

and the idea permeates the head,

and in that slightly distant dinner town,

our mothers are calling us off to bed.