Rob S. Friedman
February 2023
Rye Playland
Without the clickety-clack of the Wild Mouse plunging us kids into free fall mayhem, candy apples awaiting our mother’s opening bite, or BB guns chained to the counter, empty of shot, no longer bruising targets
lifeguards gone other places for the evening, barkers, accepting the emptiness of stalls, silenced, circle their fingers over Old Fashioned rims, bumper car wranglers having wiped down seats leave their charging brutes in a line
I dream of waiting by locked gate, inhaling, succumbing to the Sound’s salt air rooting tickets out of my jeans pockets, grasping these talismans, absorbing their potential and wishing closer the next sunrise, joyful again.
Rob S. Friedman 