King Of The Mountain (revised)

When I was nine
they dug a hole
in a neighborhood lot
for the foundation
of my family’s new home.

They left the mountain of dirt
next to it and suddenly
I was very popular,
because
my parents told the local kids
I had to be there
if they wanted to play on it.

No one has to tell
a nine year old boy
how to play
“King Of The Mountain.”
The rules are simple:

fight your way up,
send the other kids tumbling down,
and when you get to the top,

scream your royalty
as loud as you can. Then,
defend it.
I was never
very good at the game.

When the dirt was gone,
so were the kids.

At least two of them died
within a few years:
one when he thought he could cross the road
faster than a car could get to him,
one when he thought he was better on water skis
than he actually was.

My folks put a maple tree
in the corner of the lot
where the mountain used to be.

I don’t see my folks much anymore,
but I like that maple tree a lot.
It was too small to climb
when I was a kid. I could climb it now,
I suppose, but I’m too old
for that kind of thing.

But I think about climbing it,
as far up into it as I can,
every time I see it.

If I could I’d sit up there
all by myself for a long time.
I’d be quiet when I got to the top,
though. It would just be silly
to shout anything
with no one around to try
and take me down.

But God help me,
I’d be smiling.