by Peter Krass
Here, where cups of frozen custard once thrilled,Dusty timbers splinter, spit rusty nails.That boarded-over booth, disgusting Even rats, formerly fried French friesDripping orange curds of day-glo cheese.They tumbled my stomach on the Tilt-a-Whirl.Burgers got burnt, salt-water taffy Tangled in my teeth, and on a rainbow of blankets, Tiny bathing suits were stitched together with time.That pile there was the fun house. A fan hidden in the floor flew a girl’s long skirt High as her slender waist. Her flustered hands flapped, Her face burnt red with embarrassmentOr maybe just too much sun.Now a futile wind blows, scooping breezes Off the sea. Atoms wash from my face Like grains of sandThat once upon a time were stone. I too had once hoped to change the worldWith nothing more than air.