From the Fishouse

(1907 – 1916)

When nothing better bubbled your kiln
you looked for entrance.
Why not? It was safe for you, the

lions only ate women.
You saw castle and carousel
never shades and shadows. She

fastened her belt, endured the scenic
railway until everything throbbed
riot, licked cotton candy while you

twirled the cardboard cone. You said
Shoot the Chute, she said
Temple of Mystery, you

jumped the turnstile
yelling after the trolley.
Desires vanish once you

leave, it’s always different on return.
Rain checks bring ash, perhaps a fond
brief flash, moonstruck girl

breast stroke, mighty Monongahela.