Let in the needy, the glutinous,
the bald-headed children nearly posthumous.
Finish each thought with a sprinkle of pixie dust.
Hello, once formidable kingdom. Goodbye.
Usually, the days are crowded hot.
The line into tomorrow’s weightless zone
takes considerable agency. Baby strollers bump
against one’s anklebone. What a hangover one has.
Yes. One does.
Every choo-choo completes a similar circuit.
Zippedy bippity. Almost merry enough
to propel us into the firework-fretted fume.
How we do persist, ourselves and little urchins,
when every new attraction warns us off:
this is where the heart stops pumping.
This is where some big bad thing will get you
and shake the marrow down into your toes.
It were a barf. A blur. As pink as cotton candy.
Once more into the splash. A tiny choir shrieks
Please, Mr. Toad. The snug bar lifts too soon.
—for Vincent Guerra