the Carnival

at the nexus of the Narrows, the great Watuppa,

as her eyes drained of atmosphere like the hanging

moment after a socially vulgar joke,

the oil-drenched paper tray

of deep-fried clam cakes sat before her untouched

growing cold upon the redwood picnic table.

near two bucks, those clam cakes cost me.

the homebound traffic was heavy on route 6 west

as the salted populace returned from the beaches

to their collective realities, and sunlight continued dimming

in its introduction to the clear night-sky's routine.

she didn’t raise her voice in cold accusation,

utter answers to the unanswerable questions,—

try to coax an apology or in anger throw

a now inedible clam cake at my head.

she was simply distant,— silent and distant

in the manner of an outer planet.

twilight, and the Carnival Drive-in sits emptied of its contents,

the traffic dies-out over time and soon enough, route 6 west

is left to itself like a strand of linguini assigned to the wall.

blanketing the windowpanes of the Carnival, the mayflies

cling to the dying of the one day they have.