My rolling stone
Father and I swam in the red wagon;
“Radio Flyer” we sang on a scarlet
day.
Blue-white fluff bricks fell to the
Floor, among the bored boxes.
Still, the strawberries ached of stiff
joints
And my wooden table licked the baseball
Bat falling to the ceiling.
Fans blew me against the
Wall covered cobwebs
And hurled soft green oil
At my nose.
The blue barrel
Took up arms against us
When all the wood was cut
And doors, windows and phones were
shut.
It won’t be long before
The empty bowelled master
Returns, drumstick in hands
And speaking a language
Only a twin would comprehend.
