At the theme park in Homestead, past the steel mills along the Allegheny River’s
Crinkled bank, I went back home to see if I could grok the way the children
Felt about the Hurdy Gurdy Man, his lugubrious sweet music,
His little capuchin with pin-striped train conductor’s cap, held out.
It was a time in the world that was the snowball’s one last season on its way to Hell.
The earth loved us a little, I remember, said the note pinned in the seersuckered
Left breast pocket of the Surrealist’s suit, on his way to Cincinnati then, by rail.
Small chippy dogs would follow him; he carried bones of milk and scrap.
Only some of us have opposing thumbs but not to worry now.
Poppet, if you’ve anything to say, you should say it soon I think.