Kicking up dirt with my feet,
I visit the old carousel in Kiethville that
my mom used to take me to on
It's broken and torn and ugly and
broken, reminding me somewhat
of a childhood that I don't want
to be reminded of.
The sun is hot, melting the wax
horses and their finely made
wax saddles, dripping with soft
trickles on the stirrups.
The beauty of it going away is
wonderfully and magically
and I find myself staring at my
childhood, a slow smile creeping its way
to my ears, watching as it