By Pol Arellano
An inner child’s view of love and possession.
I was getting worried
I thought my kite wouldn’t make it
But then I saw its tail flutter
Like a butterfly in heat
Amongst the ink-blotted sky
And I smiled
This isn’t the season for kite-flying,
Or so they said
But I couldn’t disagree more
Kites will dance
Even if the wind
Refuses to cooperate
Yes, my indigo-bellied kite
Shall fly
High up in the sky
And the rhymes will get better after
Each flutter
Or
They will just stop
As I smile
My kite beats hers
And any other kid’s for that matter
Because my kite can
Grin
And enunciate
The words spoken by your grandmother
When she was still in her flour-sack undies
My kite is unlike any other
It smells like bread rolls and
Buttered onions
Laid out on a Midsummer’s day picnic
My kite smells like a virgin
For my kite is a virgin
Flirting with nothing
Not even the sky
Or the Eagles
Or your brain
My kite sounds like
A concerto
Of one-legged violinists
All ninety-nine of them playing
For the last time
Crying for glory
And roses
And canned applause
And maybe even a goodie bag
My kite beats all iPods
And all Tower Records
My kite is a symphony
Created by strangers and sweethearts
Under the white and blue protection
Of the trusty transit
My kite beats hers.
My kite is unlike any other.
I need not worry.
You’re already mine.
Smile.
Pol Arellano 