I grew up in a theme park.
I was every ride.
I was the visiting crowd
which crocodiled from attraction to attraction
along the hopscotch path
of comic-book painted feet.
I never missed a stop.
I never forgot to stare in wonder
where the guidebook called for gaping
and politely admonished expressions of awe.
Still gratitude demanded more than throwing my hands
in the air and screaming as the Big Dipper
plummeted from paternal heights.
I had to wear the promotional T-shirt;
caress each fluffy souvenir.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Graeme Bes-Green would be pleased to hear from you.