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Park American Dream

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.