An amusement park


It’s always closed

For renovation

To him

Who else has had the pleasure

Of experiencing every single

Diversion here?

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

So often

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

So well



My book Until She Sings is out now.


Until She Sings


My Mailing List for announcements and news with a free short story as a thank you.


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