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Folded paper airplanes, balsa wood and glue,
tiny paratroopers, drifting past telephone wires
on their way down the avenue, their virtual sea.
Model trains and green army men riding through
makeshift towns; my mountains, my childish desires,
imagination wild enough for three of me.

Spinning plates in my mind only dropping a few,
balancing teenaged responsibility with adolescent fires,
independence burning within a need to be free.
Running from the world, fast away from you,
first to play the phonograph until the needle tires.
Same song different day, listen and you'll see.
If the phone rings, I'm old enough to answer now.

The rubber band broke on my balsa, brand new,
and the gas station was recruiting new hires.
I hopped in my car to apply in person, just me,
a sweaty kid without anything resembling a clue.
Now I'm hired and paid, changing customer's tires,
filling tanks to the brim and collecting the fee.

Watching kids flying kites up high in the blue,
riding bikes and practicing to be great liars,
pulling hair, telling lies, being kids, being free.
They shout and they play like they've nothing to do,
and they don't, it's true - they're all high-fliers,
at least for today, in their youth- but not me.
If they call me out to play, I'm sadly too important now.



Zoo - Salted and Roasted
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