needling like the sting in my face
when the frisbee hit it on the Great Lawn,
surrounded by giggles and little swimming stars.
I want to reach through the fabric,
with my stitches, giggles,
make waves like that piece of pain
running from my ankle to my ass.
It’s OK because when I breathe
it touches you across radio waves hijacked.
In here we can pretend that it’s OK
to feel grass between toes,
make every chant funnier
by ending it with “in my pants.”
I don’t want the view from above.
Down here we can fling raisins,
into garbage cans and we can
make popsicle pirates in the park
spread eagle, defenses down and out
with the wind of my breath on your radio waves.