Two boys pass along the village street.
Each has a bogey of small wheels,
pushing it remotely on a stick.
I wonder why, but then I think.
My toys were little wooden men,
made from firewood sticks and wire.
The stages of our life are much the same.
We copy others to evolve our personal thing,
unique perhaps, and better than the rest?
Can I do better now I ask myself?
Make things that hold appeal for me,
and aren't just clones of other's work.
I doubt it - maybe I did better then.
My friends did not have wooden men,
but possibly they thought me strange.
Some day those boys may own a car.
One they can drive with similar pride,
my wooden army unexplained.