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.
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