Schwinn

I hold the iron rail tightly.

Chains scarring painted skin.

You left me here all winter, dear.

I’m rusted to the core.

 

Don’t try to break me free.

I won’t hold you up for long.

My legs will creak –

You will fall, dear.

I was old ‘fore you were born.

 

Zipped bags say you’re leaving.

Like you always do.

I’ll find a home in pavement, dear.

Don’t cry –

You did this on your own.

 

I said shut up.

No one will care.

They know your type, dear.

Please –

Don’t burden them, too.

 

 

 

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.)

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.)