At the park of unexploded ordnance and by-products
of enriching uranium: The everglades do all they
can, do your best to recall your ticket and what
brought you out of your home. Was it the child
or a local celeb? The big pin on his shirt
& Bonzo? A miniature greenback with Lu’s face
where George was, a crescent cup? Moons bright
as perpetual renewals in that trough?
I ask: they’re mine. Accident dropped my basket
in this beaten wood under boon of fifty stars,
so my name’s scratched on the pavement
throughout the world’s shot events. This park
solicits my unit of account (it’s dollars) like a coin
to make its horsies go, sells our few half-baked ideas:
thanks lord for the successes of my faith with the
ball, despite losing, this fun, rides, my enemy.