Man, look at 'em go.
Zipping about.
Fast flying, like their fathers.
Fly fishing, like their fathers.
Dropping cones, scraping knees.
Crying, laughing, *****.
Wooden block, sidewalk chalk.
Old McDonald had a farm.
Mayor Daley had a city.
A whole ******* city.
Fire hydrants, parking meters.
Public parks, with wood chips.
Rubber wood chips.
For babies and kids and dogs.

I want to kiss your ears and bury you alive.
In ***** snow or rotting wood or something cheap.
I want you to cry and your tears will taste like carrots.
And a little bug or worm or miniature train will fluff your pillow.
She'll make you feel at home and tuck you in for me.

I'll choke on the right things
as they leap out my throat and
go bite things. I'll candy coat
their cryings so they don't
know that they're dying.
I'll poke them as they're
writhing and goad them
to start trying and coax
them to start flying, all
the while knowing that
Bigfoot sightings are as
big a joke as my writings.

You sound like a seashell.
You fall too fast and too hard.
I want to catch you,
but I'm full of secrets.

Closing your eyes and nodding your head.
You are a delicacy too  sweet for me.
I will lick your fingers
and roll into a cave.

I am a mouse, but the bad kind.
Squeaking and stealing and running.
Your bones are light and
I will play fiddlesticks on them.

Come crash my stupid party.
We'll sneak into the basement
and share swigs of gin and
swap spit and oxygen and win card
games we don't even wanna play.

Today I learned the hard way
that my way or the highway
won't fly, but fly away with me
(but not in a gay way).

Not to sound cliché, I wish we
had wings or capes so we
could soar and swoop
through space and I could
score at hoops in space
(like Space Jam). And we can
pretend that rabbits and
carrots and green circle stars
have magic and real far away
our ending's tragic, but we don't
have to think about that yet.

We can go home and roam
around and let fun abound
until the right timing to quit
whining and open our eyes
to all our lies and do grown
things like answer phone
rings and own up to our
feelings, but let's hold off on
that for now.

Fat cats sit on mats
for kids to rhyme
and wile away the time
of day and I'm dazed
by the haze of my days,
'cause seeing clearly's
overused and I'm
amused by your subtle
clues you choose to drop
and hint that we're a pair.
You squint your eyes
at mine and find I'm
back inside my head
rhyming kid words
too cold for snow and
too old, so though
you think it's bold for
you to say, I was told
you'd stay to play, which
makes me not surprised
you'd spill your guts
through your squinty eyes.

He's got a nice mouth
that talks and kisses.
That whispers.
And eyes that sigh.
And his hands are
nice to hold and
clap and be around.

Brains and minds
don't mind or matter.
Soon he'll find that
her eyes are too big
and mouth's full of
**** and her hands
are tied, just like
her stomach.

He'll discover on his own
(or with the help of a poem)
that her heart's all
cluttered and flooded
with stupid things.

Time and thoughts
are remedies, but heads
are not extremities
that we can see with
naked eyes and touch
with tender hands.

She's got words
that ramble and
circle his name.
When the tongue
hits the teeth,
she stops because
she likes it.
And she likes
his sideways glances.

He's got guts
and a dark side, surely.
Which is good. And
earlier what she
said about being
trapped in her head
is only maybe true.