When the children leave by Francis Conlon

Francis Conlon | Sep 4th, 2022 | poetry | No Comments


The playground merry-go-round had squeaky speed,
We spun around like astronaut training,
Hanging, not tossed into the side weed,
With delicate vertigo balance maintaining.

Momentum was the physical task,
Faster, faster was the cry,
A dizzy walk was too much to ask,
We fell down and saw blue sky.

No admission for this play,
The air is filled with a joyful scream,
The real world must itself delay,
I’ll only stop for an ice cream.

Those days so safe in the rush,
Adults now have a routine,
Maybe safe in the crowd’s crush,
Not half as good as the spinning scene!

Poet Bio

Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.

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