Alive at lunch, they shout to prove their worth:
thrown fruit that rolls atop the formica
(soccer orange), feet slide across the berth
of time in minds still growing out like a

Slinky, rainbow-colored, that stretches out
in hands of children laughing geekily
aware of time, perhaps, but not of doubt
that chains free thoughts and chokes us slinkily:

Monochrome headgear under ghastly lights
dances grey-black like textile formica
that crawls across the glow of earthly flights
to the heart of purgation, just like a

Lil’ Child runs wild then changes last minute,
in time to find his mind’s eye and spin it.