On being

Light me up and

I’ll explode in a fusion of color and spark

And hairless little innocents

Will point with peanut butter –covered fingers

And ooh and awe at my splendor

While middle -aged house wives who have seen

The same act a million times

Will fix their pastel sweaters

While infants scream because in their eyes,

The world is ending.

Light me up and I’ll drip like wax; melt in an unsteady but never –ending

Flow of flesh-colored sludge.

I mold when at room temperature,

And bend and mush to the shape

Of your desire

When your bored and careless fingers fidget,

Leaving and exact replica of your

Fingerprint,

And I scream without a sound

In my ugly and deformed way.