Seated, serious about the work

Intent, intensely gathering to my left fist

What I pluck adroitly

With the fingers of my other hand

The cylinders crunch and line my palms

With a milk-like sticky

I am a freckled boy in a field of dandelions

Red fireman’s hat composed of plastic; sharp-thin

Curly red-red, Irish red hair in a mass

Makes the hat seat unstable

Leaning out, pulling another yellow bud

The wind again pushing my hat

The sky is blue

A few wispy clouds

Like God hasn’t finished mopping

Look at what I brought you mom

Look at what your baby boy has done