Scar-tallied kneecaps,
keep score of tumbles and stumbles,
of muddy creek bed baseball slides
and unplanned handlebar vaults.
A forever stain bruising,
banded black and blue.
Mother's damp thumb swipe
cannot clear it, now.
Scalpel slices skin,
a wishbone incision,
posed like a question with no answer,
cutting to the core.
Bend the bars of his rib cage
and free the visceral petals,
a bone blossom blooming,
a blush of stale humour.
His lungs are strong,
a certain shade of bubble gum,
and would have ballooned
just as well.
His heart is sufficiently volumed
for all the life still trapped in it.
Seems too light to have succumbed
to 90-odd pounds plummeted.