By Sverre G. Holter and Brook Ilges

I turn, giggling
Your fingertips just out of reach
Of my sensitive ribcage
Running full blown three-year-old style
Down slick hard wood hallways
I can hear your steps catching up
I grin
      
You turn, giggling
A cloud of dandelion seeds
Floating between my fingers; a
Handful of fog
Mocking me unmockingly with
Every echo thrown like the frisbee
That entertains the puppy
Until its teeth finally sink into
Slightly elsastic plastic that
Doesnt's mind the feeling
Of sharp, little fangs
Breaking what could have
Been skin, but isn't
When I catch you
(When you let me catch you)*
I'll growl and shake you
So hard you'll laugh
Until you go limp between my
Teeth
Lets us never, never ever be
More serious than
This