Kicking At the March Air

A lunatic dance, frenzied feet twisting everywhere, going nowhere, kicking at the cool March air. No meek manner, no sculpture's mediocre smile, just a jumbled medley of clenched teeth and an impassioned, deer-eyed death stare. All grace departed, exorcised and damned with exaggerated melodrama, from the electric flair of the writhing madman. Who can say why the melt down exploded into comical vile gestures and daggered words escaping his unguarded mouth, flying away like an angry, uncaged bird, fluttering and sputtering- spinning in the wind? Possibly the tall, spiked-haired lady casting thin blade shadows on the walk, clicking away in high heels and scarlet lips with third finger propped up on her stone-jeweled hand. She pauses to flick and kill her dropped cigarette, then kick it to the curb... along with the crazed madman.