They kill the fish they caught
by slamming it against the rocks
and watch as it just bleeds
into the current of the stream
so quick and lazy its forgotten
they were standing there.
It gets dark out as they wander home
with their coolers made of Styrofoam
and bucket hats with hooks
that hold the moon.
There are dandelions growing through
the curves of a euphonium forgotten
in some field where it is rusting.
It is caught within the shadow
of a roller coaster splintering
from time and anxious heels
forever tapping down against the bending
rails as it is climbing up the chain
pulled by a motor no one’s looked at
now in seasons.
There’s a Zamboni on cinder blocks
in the backyard of a janitor
who inherited the property
for nothing but the name
that someone gave her.
She has been trying to sell it online
since she found it out there baking
in the sun with all its faded paint
and long neglected hate,
but no one wants it so it sits there
all the same.