More tagalong
more chirping, the people kind
and hibiscus flowers in my mouth,
and so much effort to grasp each age and eye of mine
in two pastel-sticky-fingered hands
after hearing "pontification" uttered
in my head, so far off ago,
despite the delight still sifting
through my opal waves of brain,
some iridescent sponge,
absorbing sensuality,
roaming freely in the park,
contending with philosophers and bums
yet confusing the two heads
under a waxing crescent,
bright like an angel's sickle,
a pearly scythe,
just the moon and the reckoners
with no home base.