"The Costume Has to Stand Up Because the Body Doesn't Now"

All small children are spooky,
Pyrophoric substances.
Exactly four and a half,
Sukha starts reading out loud
To her father in the car
He drives further to hear her
Halting sounding-out of words.

Spontaneous combustion
It feels like, although culture
Has been pushed dangerously
Close to hand for her, starting
With the rhythmic murmuring
Of mother's interior.
Composting is encouraged,

But slow burn's never certain,
And some things burst into flames.
Rate of change remains the name
Of each moment's movements' game.
Heat's speed, acceleration,
Velocity, jerk, endless
Fine refinements of the same.

In later years, one aging
Gracefully as a growing
Mist, must remind us others
That the shrill whistle still lurks,
That the elderly dancer
Calculates masks and balance
As elements of the dance,

The one increasingly prone
To collapse as the rising
Heat of the consuming fire
Puts pressure on the other
Who started out singing, "I'm
A little teapot," arms out,
Soon not read to but reading.

Everyone lives life pell-mell,
Goes "ass over teakettle,"
Sally said of an old friend's
Injurious tumble down
Stairs in the innocent dark.
The torch often lies around
Unnoticed until too late.