They won't eat much. The cool, steady winds taste like the sensation of churning a rich milkshake in and out of your cheeks. The birds are noisier than usual, so it'll likely rain soon. Poppa laughs and scratches himself. I tag along.
Home is wherever and whenever it is now.
In the back of his neck I see the sidewalk, with all its cracks and winding grooves. In his heavy eyes I see a thousand tiny and red arms reaching a singular blue jewel that is simply too darting to be caught by such small fingers. He buys me a PEZ dispenser and a lemonade for himself. I ask why their asses look like disgraced rainbows. He only swallows and spits at them again.