are made to acknowledge so many rules.

“Stay out of the street.” “Hold your brother’s hand.”

“Don’t jump out of trees.” “Don’t climb on stools.”

“Stay off the shed roof.” “Don’t run with scissors.”

“Don’t play with your father’s power tools.”

Nothing needful in a child’s eyes,

all aimed only at stifling our fun.

Why should we let some old fogey

tell us how and when and where we run?

We immortals deserve only the best views

from the treetops, basking in the sun.

True, our parents are old, and scarred. They

have experienced a great many pains.

But a child knows only constant denial,

even simple thrills locked in hateful chains.

We do not see them sparing us anything

shouting to come in out of the rain.

But, parents, I can offer you this,

if your children would deny the truth:

“The climb may be easy, and the view grand.

Still, rules matter, and here is proof:

I was the willful, invincible child,

and I indeed fell through that toolshed roof.”

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