We are caught in a moon bounce, one of those
futuristic air bubbles kids lose themselves in:
a mini world where movement snaps
gravity, where sound ricochets off walls, echoes
then falls. For a moment we float, twirl in sync, land
sure-footed on an elastic surface to propel ourselves
higher. Everyone wants a turn, crowds into this place
where time warps, distorts everything kaleidoscope-like
and bends the moonsway of our Matisse Waltz.
Silent, we fumble for that spark like children
who grab for fireflies: mouths open, arms waving
like loose string, hands catching fistfuls of air.
Copyright © Michael Mastrofrancesco 2002
Appeared in Potomac Review