Crooked Feet Can Still Sing
Please play your clarinet again,
So I can dance for you in the bandroom,
And stain my feet thrush blue,
For our picnic in the jack’s box.
I’ll bring stretched yo-yos and you’ll bring folded frogs,
We’ll try to throw them into Horizon’s golden dimple,
As she smiles at how we play wall ball instead,
Clapping clouds at the rubbered rhythm.
I hope you catch me when my bent toes get caught on pavement,
With your rug-burnt fingers and chewed up nail.
Even if you get buttered grip,
I’ll laugh as my spine twists into gravelled wrinkles,
And push your tears under the fat beneath your lashes.
Because I want to remember recess in gold,
And you as the shine upon its forehead.
Please make your hands prance on your clarinet’s freckles,
Even if your knuckles sprout grapes,
Let me draw the folds of your brain,
To a melody of memory.