Cracklebones
crackle crackle crackle
you can hear him coming
his bones crackle and snap
like the sound of dead twigs when you step on them
like chips when you open the bag.
Every time he moves
crackle crackle crackle
when he folds his arms
when he cleans his teeth
when he bends to do up his shoe laces
when he goes upstairs or down
when he walks along the street
when he swims in the public pool
when he rides his bike
when he stirs his tea
when he eats an apple
when he plays the guitar
crackle crackle crackle
When he gets into bed
his wife puts cotton wool in her ears
When he shifts and crackles in his sleep
she dreams of forest fires
tons of rice crispies
popping in a sea of milk
matchstick mice
doing gymnastics
and millions of icicles
creaking and crackling in sudden gusts.
He used to get depressed about having crackly bones
until he joined an organization of people
whose bodies do strange things
like the baby girl in Australia
who grows ten and a half inches every full moon
and an old lady in Brazil
with a live canary
in her right lung
and a Norwegian sailor whose skin is totally transparent.
They all meet once a year.
Cracklebones wants them to do a TV show.
He thinks they can make a lot of money.