One thing I miss most about my childhood,
besides my blissful naïveté,
is getting roughed up,
falling down.
Scraped knees,
cracked scabs,
bloody noses,
bruised shins.
The little red-stained messes resulting from living hard,
existing rough,
playing dirty.
Raw palms,
smudged faces.
Now the bruises are tokens of drunken stumbles,
the battered knees souvenirs of a sexual dalliance,
the blood but a monthly occurence
and the smudges left over from last night’s application of mascara.