The red scooter rusting 
in the culvert belongs to a boy 
who’s gotten too big for toys, 
now there is working the controller,
pushing his player through levels, 
past bosses, hours committed
to the dopamine rush
of seeing his avatar 
on the scroll of high scores.

Lame is father
yelling at him to get up,
get out, cut the grass —
For chrissakes, do something
with this day —
dad’s Adderall kicking in,
all do, do, do —

mother asking if he wants 
his favorite mac & cheese
because she’s worried he’s angry,
angry at her, and there goes
her last nerve, off to pilates.

They’re so easy to see through, 
it’s no challenge, really, 
easier than Zelda
or COD or Grand Theft,

this boy’s life, so boring,
game he’s already mastered.