AVIATION GAME

I'm two foot three, sure,
but I have a big heart.
Really, the doctor says
my ticker tocks at a fast
and lively tempo. Too lively,
in fact it's getting bigger
by the second, bound
to explode. I'm needy!
I'm polite with parents.
To distant generations
my chary disposition
is desired, misconstrued
as something noble, wise,
perhaps at times a little
roguish. I get along with
my raccoons, we talk shop
in the ward. We, the loony
toons, huffing nitrous
under jig saws and flood lights.
But that's not all we have
in common. No, watch us
discuss the public health crisis;
how little they know
about fluoride! They say
it's all in my head,
which darts around,
back and forth, left to right
and up, up, up ...! But have
you seen my pearly whites?
After they shattered into
little bits my doctor installed
Chiklets. Not bad, I smile
to my furry pals. Blame it
on the hard candy, says
the oldest of the raccoons,
who deals a fabulous deck of cards.
Ah, the ace of hearts — but
I've shown my hand,
and it's tarred and feathered.
They chortle and snort,
and so here I must
play the rogue, call the fowl
for what it is: Au contraire,
I say coolly, dropping
a dead man's hand
while lighting a match
and blowing the highly
flammable wing to smithereens.
It was rapturous,
like taking flight.