Winston

Whenever words come out of his mouth his arms thrash and flail the air like severing bullwhips teaching the air how it feels to kiss the sharp breeze w/a dangerous tease.

He jumps up and down like a toad that has just lost his mind wording the stories he was told as a young child when the world was but memories old.

(The world it was hot and then it was cold.)

And the people lacking sunshine laugh at his only facade ~ the one that was perpetually sad.

Every once in a while he got a pain to his knees and he cried in the bathroom, sitting on the floor rubbing them until they felt well. And the other kids ran up and down the stairs but some of their deeds would never agree with what their parents taught them. He heard all the kids laughing in various degrees from their guiltiness and misdeeds.

And his world was old.

And his stories were bold that he told the likes of we.

My, Winston sure is gifted.

No one, not one heard a word he said but they were impressed with the frog and the arms and all they could see.

The pain to his knees commanding a kneel.

His various degrees ever surreal.

1995
Victor Millan