Three O'Clock

Salty lamp-light tumbles

through the blinds, crashing

on the denim rocks, interspersed

with tiny yarn birds.

The cold breeze dries out wide-

open eyes. Above, fireworks

crash, their plaster explosions

keep you awake.

Behind, the carnival continues--

the merry-go-round begins to

turn, the quilt chasing

like an anxious parent.

Shrivel, exposed

to the incoming tide,

skin prickling

instantly. Turn back to the pier, catch

one of the porcelain horses,

taking shelter in the warmth

of the machine.

It reverses--

disappears with a snort--

His dream ends long enough to wrap long arms

around shivering shoulders.

Laundry soap, aftershave, a hint of something

sweet--

The churning waltz begins

its slow dance, the gears

rumbling

back into their pulsing rhythm.

Hold your breath, feel the heavy

sway of the engine. Feel the cool

of the sea pulling back, as the carnival drifts

away, leaving only the tappling

of the rain--

the tide bustling into the tiny

apartment, stare into a tiny

reality, three thousand miles

away from a New England shore,

where the beach is cinderblock

and chipped tile

and no children cry.