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
chuckles
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
sobs
at its collapse, a waste of breath.
This is the boy the rhea bit from in its
grill.
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,
offences,
and the kid escaped with tears.