Younger than young
Are chickens in eggs
So young, in fact,
They have shells for legs
And though they roll crooked
That’s finer than fine:
Most goings are baby steps
In crooked lines.
When I woke up this morning
The weather was hot.
But where were my flip-flops?
Did I know? I did not.
All through the long winter
All we wore was boots
Then suddenly the
Flipping trees had flopped fruit.
So in my bare feet
With nerves that were fraying
I searched for my flops
While I shoulda’ been playing.
Being flipflopless
Was terribly scary,
‘Till the moment I found’em –
That flipped on my merry.
‘Cause nothing says good times
Like flops on your feet
Not inside the house
But out on the warm street.