One small white-shirted boy, gone, just a
breath away, faun-like, now invisible. Face
after face after face after face-no gap
in the legs moving steadily ahead. My
hands clench as head roars—then, he
whirls toward me, a splinter of direction
framed in shrieking faces. Hugging him close
as the crowd collapses, I lead him to his ride,
the merry-go-round is pure joy,
a brief floating circle
of shadowed love.
Slant bodies tip, whirl as
dark shapes startle. Screams ricochet,
burst, at the empty tunnel's edge.
His small hand
shooting thought through me,
what would he do alone, in
this God-damned fun house?
1. From the Red Cedar Review, volume 8, number 2 (1972). For more information on this author at the time of this publication, and other online issues of this publication go to: https://d.lib.msu.edu/rcr Worth corrections?