The Carousel

I am three years old

And the carousel makes its rounds:

This horse is white,

That horse is brown.

How do they gallop?  I ask my father.

They are alive, he says.  It’s magic.

I am ten years old

And the carousel makes its rounds:

This horse is wood,

That horse is bound.

How do they gallop?  I ask my father.

They are alive, he says.  It’s the machine.

I am seventeen years old

And the carousel makes its rounds:

This horse in tears,

That horse creaks under

Too many pounds.

How do they gallop?  I ask my father.

They are alive, he says.  That’s how I imagine it.

(Like last week, you can frighten your foes with the original version.)

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Lunch at Noon

He tossed together:

Lettuce,

Mushrooms,

Cheddar,

And peas.

Salad.

 —

He stacked hungrily:

Buttery bread,

Fatty ham,

Butter,

And onions.

Sandwich.

He poured carefully:

Coffee,

White milk,

In a glass,

A fragile glass.

Latté.

 —

He stepped

On the stairs.

And

            He

                      Fell.

(Confuse your friends with the original version.)