I’ll dive. My feet are springs
to push me off. My arms are wings
careening me through the air. My eyes
are glares to light the path. If I

fall flat on my face I’ll just roll
to the next place. But I won’t sit still
as a pigeon on the windowsill looking
in the house of life. I’m the howling

wind at night. I’m the gale, the forest
fire. I’ll burn a trail before I retire. I won’t look
back with “ifs” Life is short but tall
on orders. I can jump all their borders. I’m

the bomb! My cocktail is a Molotov,
served straight up, with a twist of
rhyme. And I’ll swing from every line, high
as a string on a kite, crimson and white.