Legs forked upside down bicycling the air,
Hands craned and arched–a stilled Tonka–your
Spearheaded head radished, shot back
In these awkward, torqued semi-spasms
That keep pressing your poised nose
Down drilling the wooden, recently redone
Floor. Its geometric body snaps shut. Sure,
Killer, it takes getting used to–your own
Body–the elastic stretching, pants plastic
And girdling your beer-a-day potbelly, its
Discombobulated quasi-Cubist fit. It
Hurts, but a good hurt: just a sec more…
The snapping turns to a backbreaking split,
The inside camouflage, the liquid melt.