Flat tires made round and sound,
The tall trees shake out a salsa beat in the shade
Cardiovascular rhythms thudding base
Fingers strumming a tune in clasped hands
And the sun shines in your face completing
Not a melody
Not a song
Not a symphony.
But a punk rock show.
You riff a solo, flashing that smile
I step right behind you, eating that mic.
And we take off with the rush of a million leaps from the stage
Not to sweaty fans but to sweet freedom
Like the first day of summer vacation
Higher than ninety-nine plus one red balloons.
Fifteen cans of tuna couldn’t capture this.
A shared flea couldn’t either.
We fly closer to the moon, yet daylight shines brighter,
Like a fluorescent highlighter.
Eye why queue.
And we walk, and we rock all the way to dinner
And an endless tour.
