Third Wheel

Unassuming warm air slaloms

between our freshly grown leg-wheat

trodden with the earth. I think not

of the agonizing yet freeing whistle

the bastille blows: releasing us;

I yearn for peered guffaw, I yearn

for poh-tee-weet and chirp-chirp.

The clock walks, to tease

my anticipation for fraternal

reunion. My guests migrate

in a flee from midsummer

patriarchal tasks. One guest

is nostalgia and the

other is annoyance.

Welded. Yes, through blood. Further

in taste. The two best friends

grasp their intimate

friendship. And

the third did

    too.

One eye up,

blind without

your mitt

visor, you witness

their rolling

cackles. Their

fullness created

your emptiness–

like being picked

last. Or not at all.

Run, hide, wait, run, and win!

Slippery sweat seeped into the

elderly rope ladder that once stood

taught. Caught. He stands below,

gazing up. The two have summited

Fort D.I.Y. –the treehouse.

They sneak,  they scurry,

they swivet, they stomp,

they sniffle. Geronimo!

You see

flying gazelles

overhead,

quick and

cover your

neck like in a

tornado drill.

They pound

and crunch

the earth with

their flashing

rubber hooves.

Fleeting from

you: they hoot

and howl

between pants

of exhaustion,

without a

retrospection for

if you even chased

them.