The concrete cage is empty. Silent.
Trickles of energy start to sweep through the space,
Drowned out by busy adults swarming the perimetre,
Not us, but others, looking busy and are powerless in their poison fuelled vehicles.
Don’t mind us, their young bodies will just absorb your waste, why don’t they get the space and freedom whilst we watch fat cats prowl the cages under the glare of dogs.

I wait, prepare for our own rush hour.
It’s easy to lose your self preservation at it’s peak of chaos,
Some of us huff, frown and puff.

Some even scream. Grab it, board it, share it, love it, remember yesterday’s? We must do that again, dump it, throw it, swing it, trade it…

But most laugh, joke and play. We find happiness in the chaos, not always a happy hour though, a handful of souls escape the chaos, can’t cope – warning – wall- yellow.
But for each one of these sufferers of life thrown at them, there are 100 more that are relishing in our space.

A quarter of children disappear, our loose parts go away,
Guilt runs through me for I’m denying them what they crave.
Where’s the signs, the key and ‘Come on now, you know not to climb inside’…

The peak is nearly over, the complexity of the rush hour makes this time rich with events, memories, laughs and cries – yet it’s all lost in perspective. We know who we are, that hold onto these pockets of time and reflect on what, how and if. But those of you who don’t listen and look will miss it, for the rush hour is just

Playtime.

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