“Not It!” we’d shout before a round
of backyard hide-and-seek,
the last to say it left behind
to count down in the dark

of covered eyes from ten to one,
from one to Ready-or-Not,
the Here-I-Come that comes too soon,
the day that turns to night

because the game’s gone on and on,
and now you’re It, you’re It,
and now you’ve always been alone
without a hiding spot,

with friends to find who can’t be found
because it’s late, too late
for anything but how the wind
makes ghost-chimes of the Not

as night turns day and day turns night,
and you’re not not the one
in grown-up clothes that don’t quite fit
who can’t stop counting down

from ten to one to Ready-or-Not
to Here-I-Come again
as night turns day and day turns night,
and you’re not not the one

who’s never not been running out
of breath the more you count
from ten to one to Ready-or-Not,
who’s counting backward now

from Here-I-Come to Ready-or-Not,
and you’re not not the one
in grown-up clothes that finally fit
who shouts “Not it! Not it!”