Thursday, May 7, 2020
Remember at the beach the sun,
the funfare, bumping cars, lights,
penny arcades, shooting galleries
and the machine with the Gypsy woman
who spit out your fortune on a card,
the big head of a laughing clown,
going ho-ho-ho? How far we walked.
At one point we got lost. And scared.
It was gray at the end of the esplanade.
The wind came up. And it grew cold.
We could no longer smell the beach.
In a dirty parking lot filled with broken
glass, an empty oil drum, I sat
and waited for a long, long time.
I knew what Dad would have said,
"There are no more rides." Now he's dead.
So's Mom. And you were everybody.