I know it’s kind of already too late to stop me,

and that I’m probably just punishing myself in the memory stall

where expression can’t really happen

until I have more room to trot around anyway,

but permit me to pretend a choice still matters,

when I ask how you, little, red propeller

on the nose of the balsa wood plane

I let fly away from me when I was six,

how can you still be a picture in my mind?

Granted, you’re not the actual propeller, but still.

You’ve got me curious little red, propeller,

so, I’ve been thinking that maybe

I’m about how I’m like you

and might not yet realize that, this instance doesn’t count.

I’ve certainly revolved with red hot worry

over fields of happy-go-lucky clover

while I put on a nose of Rudolph-like confidence.

Arrogance aside, I’m the gifted guy who saves you

when everybody else is still in a blinking fog.

It’s either that, or you, little, red propeller, are thinking about me,

and it was actually me who flew away from you that day,

not the other way around.