Tragically Actual

I smile at
your disrepair, like
the resurrected
lights of county fairs-

the Christmas
lights of catharsis,
a melody’s metastasis;

then lend you my
jacket because your
arms are bare.

Remember we used
to come here to escape our
summer lair?

When the crowds
were not ghosts that now
guard their
posts, with

vocal chords that could
hit more than
a single, heart-wrenching
note?

Now, loudspeaker lullabies are downsized to
megalomania’s megaphones, and the old gravel roads
are grown over and
gone.

But the game booths live on,
right between the Ferris wheel and that giant rock
teenagers used to climb up.

So abrupt is the
silence, so
violently factual, that
although the rhetoric
was gradual-

such comforts
can’t sustain
themselves
forever.

Thus, it becomes
our tragically actual- the place where
magic never
failed us,

but we
always let it down.

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9 thoughts on “Tragically Actual

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