Paul rolls his eyes.
Paul barrel-rolls his eyes
and dives arms spread fixed-wing-like.
He strafes a line of Hannibal’s elephants
before they enter the Alps
on their way to conquer the Etruscans.
Paul does not care the Romans
conquered and absorbed the Etruscans first
or that his P-Fifty-One Mustang is twenty-one centuries too soon.
He really does not care that he is forty
and this type of make-believe
is normally reserved for children.
Yesterday, he purchased a bottle
of special reserve imagination from the wine steward
at his favorite curiosity shop.
It does not matter that the special reserve imagination
was a can of A&W root beer from a Coca-Cola machine
in the back of the curiosity shop.
Paul considers the inside of his insides
and scans the walls for Peter Pan and Lost Boys graffiti
painted with the red stain of yesterday’s Strawberry Twizzlers.
He finds I won’t grow up repeated forty-one times
across his inside’s insides,
then rounds his P-Fifty-One into another strafing run.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney