A Bad Day: A Poem

 The kid is scared of a balloon,

         runs bawling while his sister

         bandies it unkindly, keeping after him.

         The bang inside it lurks.  It likely

         if you only knew a way to let it get out

         bit by bit.

         He doesn't care about a thing like beauty

         though you couldn't call it beauty.

         Not exactly.

         If it wasn't quite so full of that expletive

         which, on uttering it is left so little limp

         and total death, it could be pretty.

         He isn't sure he hates it more

         inflated and explosive like a big bird

         nudging at his nerves,

         or its disgusting aftermath, slack, slick
and tattered.

         So he screams to see it swell and then he

         at its collapse, a waste of breath.

         This is the boy the rhea bit from in its

         It bruised his soul.

         The gorgeous stalk of stuffy mop and snake
of neck;

         the glare swung with the hooded hook.

         How could such glorious presence break with
ceremonial ?

         They traded glowers, and swapped, perhaps,

         and the kid escaped with tears.
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