little blond boy lifts his arms up in full swing,
a small bike, a plaything yielded in his hands
cracks it off the grass. not the boulevard,
but right in front of his house.
to the left of his entrance sidewalk.
where is diane arbus.
the force does not shake his body,
blond hair makes him look so innocent,
but even from a distance I can
see a scowl.
sheer determination to destroy.
face contorted.
he picks it up again. moves it around
the yard, swooping it
the sky is blue, behind a setting sun
he is shouting, come get me,
taunting a distant victim.
