when you get off the ghost train
and meet some cthulu-esque abomination of thrashing ganglia
and ooze-slick suckers, calmly stewarding
some disabled children onto the merry-go-round,
holding onto their balloons while they ride
frozen, beaming horses in lurching circles.
The tootling calliope music makes a boy in callipers
wail anxiously, but the horrid conglomeration
soothes him, swiping away tears with a wet-wipe
deftly produced from a leather satchel.
You walk home feeling guilty,
tearing out swatches of candy floss
with your teeth.