breathless, he, child of pineapple summers
with sticky sweet juice crusting and cresting
from his chin to his bare chest.
i saw him mirroring uncivilization
with yellow sidewalk chalk,
the colored dust choking the cement
of his cracked driveway
until the family car crushed tire track prints into his revolution
and he was left with disillusioned silhouettes
dancing the foxtrot when all he really wanted was the tango.
And his father laughed and talked on the long ride home
And his mother laughed and talked on the long ride home
And he thought about how everyone dies someday
And when tomorrow gets here, where will yesterday be
Author notes
stole the title from The Weakerthans's song. Also, the last stanza is from the song.
A contest entry
- nothing, but a carnival ... (read the rules first) by A Prophet of 3.
4457 points, ended October 30, 2007, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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