by Wills Troubadour
These days are bottom-heavy
like rain clouds too fat to fit in the sky.
The Portland-stone domes
of the civic center are empty now, but soon
will be stuffed with the verve
and musings of twenty-somethings
too pacing, too energized to lull.
They are on the ledge,
about to pancake
into the cool fountain water
that arches like an entranceway,
crashes like a cannonball.
These twenty-somethings, too,
will arch and crash.
They will balance the stellar rise
with the queer plunge.
They will learn to eat cement
quickly before it dries
and babble in tongues
they never knew they knew.
They will ransack the castle's
Norman keep, rip through ballrooms,
flip portraits upside down and scratch out the eyes.
With erasers in their hands, they will
rub away murals with giant swipes.
Outside, they will behead
daffodils and scrub green stains from the grass.
They will wrap pedestrians in toilet paper,
hurl white tarps over theatres, arcades, the stadium.
They will fill water guns with bleach
and squirt every dirty cloud clean.
Once the sky is packed with icebergs,
they will snort the last line of dirt from their fingernails
and soar.
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