Playground Triumph   I dreamt I couldn’t choose which arm To bowl with at recess and send The rusty stick-propped battered bit Of tin flying across the yard,   Miss Smith’s grip hurting my right wrist During Transcription till she’d swung Me from the left and I’d knocked down My father’s middle stump, betrayed   The cack-handedness he’d bequeathed, Which she said was how Satan wrote. I woke distressed, recalling that I’d answered back, when he, beside   Himself yelled “you’re to give up sport And help me make ends meet, as does Your brother’s bursary”, with “my Hat-trick today…