The oiled iron track clicks and groans,
divining the path of my cart painted
circus red and carnival gold.
With a hollow, wooden clap,
through loose swinging doors
to a richer darkness
black-lit by otherworldly beings
who shock and delight
at every creaky, unnatural turn.
Against the rules,
I lift the cold chrome safety bar from across my lap,
encouraged by the glowing elected ghouls
whose cries, to me,
are lullabies and drinking songs.
I step out of my cart and
they welcome me
because I’m home.