Bret R. Crabrooke (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

In the inevitable shutdowns of the butterfly houses
The seniors will have their misfits and their
Graduations—
Even if it is an entire castle, while I have been driving
Myself from shore to shore—
There are only so many numbers in the alphabet—
And then the paths lead to plagiarisms if
Nothing more—and the lights go out above
The crocodiles—
Above the sluice of playgrounds who
Have all turned out, while the pageants
Misrepresent themselves—high above the sky
The movies all look beautiful—
And then there are the memories—
Of the emptied playgrounds—
Of the emptied playgrounds—
And the beauty queens touching themselves.