Sweet Scent

I can smell the sweet scent of my own sweat

as I blow high with the breeze and swing,

I pump my legs like a child again my skinny kid’s butt

holds me down, keeps me grounded

when adults threaten to pull me off.

My chain breaks as I tempt to kiss the sun,

my knees have a life of their own bending

as if my very existence depended on it,

and it does, for I’d rather be a nut flying high

over people’s heads than on the ground dying

touching the earth, staining the water

with my unclean mind, my hands washing red

off the money so I can sleep off my power trip

and back stabbing toys.

I was an old soul at five spouting off

about the filth of my generation.

I knew greed was the root of all evil,

competition in close cousin.

I had my doubts about civilization as I found it

and convinced my sister Tricia to wear

flannel jammies zipped to the throat in the summer

to protect us from the babysitter’s bloodsucking

husband while our parents went out for supper.

July 2, 1998