Hit the paydirt playground running

Hit the paydirt playground running.
Ruffle the dust like a mutt,
shock a caste of nuns, snatching their balanced hems
like a barn-large gaffer from a prop closet.
Dart the uppity top-soled greek-bods,
all whistles and hoops to a jump-and-duck blues.

And pick up the feet that were made for it.
Ship past the glow houses, the streaming trail 
of light bricks and rail lines. Race the sparrowed city
till it’s only a flag lagging. A pale English fortress
made short work of. Over the rowboat
warehouse leaps. Sprint! Or hijack a bus!

Get-there-now screaming the head 
like a taser, yakking and doodling the lifted refrain
like a gym resurfacer's squack. Get to him
who turned on a grape before he’s all who’s-the-fool-now, 
before the cool S in disposing takes a bite out
out of Pasquale’s to-mah-to bride. 

Show up with sweaty bleach in the eye,
heaving and flush, ruddy, ready, gasping the lisping swig,
and rough the pronged words with elation, sure.
Tumble with seed, unstill and turmoiled, 
aghast at the feats required but tickled to huff
the nexts shoulder on shoulder, if you get there in time.

© Marcus McCann