My Carousel.

MY CAROUSEL

Hunting Park, Philadelphia

   They came and carted off my carousel,
   Tore out its horses and gold chariots,
   Its lions and gilt mirrors and huge wheel
   Of grease that spun the zodiac around;
   Each hand-carved piece went to the
     auction block
   To please collectors of such artifacts;
   For everything must pay its way, they say,
   And carousels are definitely passe
   And have no business in a public park.

   I liked to walk there on warm afternoons
   And hear its ancient scratchy phonograph
   Playing fantastically outdated tunes
   To the delight of children whirling round
   In a bright vertigo of sight and sound.
   The carousel became the axle-tree
   Of my entire little universe
   As cosmical as Merlin's Table Round.

   The building's left, deserted like a tent,
   Nailed, boarded up to hide the void inside,
   Its wooden navel sticking in cold sky.
   I wander there like someone lost, bereft,
   Watching the kids play soccer to loud
     cries.
   I wonder still about my animals.

--RICHARD O'CONNELL