An amusement park
It’s always closed
Who else has had the pleasure
Of experiencing every single
Lips frosted with pink sugar
Taste but here, how he sweeps the floor,
Tighten the bolts on the tracks,
Pour soothing sawdust on sour puddles,
And yes there is depth of value
But he sees the symphony of lights
Hear the calliope, calygpian
Music and looks at the ticket stub,
Illegible from where he’s touched it
Understand there are off seasons
But where is his fried gold summer?
Knowing his place and musing
Why he’s not allowed
The run of you all
When he plays so well
My book Until She Sings is out now.
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