You're All

You're all chapped lips and scrapped knees,
neurotic wanderings buzzing like summer bees
toward flowerbeds where small stink-weeds
attract all the flies.

You're all watermelon juice down a chubby chin
and smiles full of corn kernel skin,
an evening down home where the smell of a grill
deviously blends with the dusk-scape sky.

You're all the quiet and reclusion
of being hurt without tears
and running to no one with torn heart-string fears,
an isolated spasm of a steady will
but displayed, as if on a stage,
for any willing detractors.

You're all birthday cakes and tacos,
eccentric without irony,
with a defiantly high spirit
in the shadow of this hullabaloo.