Young Anthony

You somehow look as grown up as you are going to look, in that man's body. Anthony. A riddle of tattoos and feathered hair in cedar. Leather, tailored pants and slim vests befitting European scholars with pipes, and fuzzy frazzled upward looks with noses in barely readable books. Would you meet me for an afternoon in Paris? Water gardens and haciendas with exploding blooms and the sun for tea? It's with innocent eyes that you seer the world. One Two Three steps to the edge of old. And still you giggle without drugs. And still you snap energy glow lights in lime green veins and sing... Pop Pop Pop... You are the child that we should all protect and sleep as in our dreams. You wake us from the agitation which might have been another mashed potato milk day. Are you alive in Paris, or Rome, or Fuji? It's with a certain electric, that we waver on streets and cobbles, unbeknownst to sleepy tourists and railcars, just to satisfy our eyes with passing fancies and peanut brittle. Tattoo parlors and broken glass mosaics in shop windows pressing our memories to age. But you... Young Anthony, young, young Anthony... we really should have tea.