Even though it isn’t April,

there’s spring in my walk,

and a smile on my lips

like the Steeplechase Face.

Every passerby smiles back.


There’s charm in my mile-a- minute talk.

Everyone claims to love me so much,

even light rain bounces off my head,

as I hula-hoop to El Ula Ula music

of my teen-age years.

The happiness of my body gets overshadowed

by a sudden memory of an angry sergeant,

who made me drop down and deliver

twenty-five pushups over an open bayonet,

for calling my rifle a gun, instead of a piece.

I flip a gold Krugerrand down a well,

and make a wish to provide more fun

for inane leaders who sing the same song

of conquer and destroy, with hands

always washed in blood.

The unenlightened angels at the bottom

of the well, twist and twirl in celebration,

elated to see the reflection of stars

smiling back at me, promising to make

my wish come true.