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.