He's a

He's a John Hughes film on repeat in the dark recesses of his mind,
stacked behind the veil of confusion hanging between him and the world
he was thrown into after his Kansas closed for renovations he couldn't
continue when the economy crashed like the twin towers that death is
building up again across the wire that his future wife might walk on
since he tends to fall for huge women in frail bodies equipped with
scissors they use to cut the strings tied roughly to their wrists and
those around them even though they can't seem to escape the boning
tougher than their bones they need to be perfect silhouettes poised
carefully on rooftops and railways that he'll save them from with 3
seconds to spare because the boy always does in a John Hughes film- it
doesn't matter how many rips are in his jeans or how crooked his hair is
because he is the boy with the invisible cape and feet too quick for
his worn-out sneakers worn by his great-great-grandfeet who would never
guess he'd pop from the dirt so clean inside after shaking the dust
right off his old bones beneath the young flesh he hardly knew was
there.