The Last Surviving McDonald's PlayPlace
- Jayce Russell
- Aug 31
- 2 min read
Author: Jayce Russell
Near enough to but not inside of
Kenosha and entirely forgotten
by all records seven–thousand and eighty-two
plastic eggs compress because Jeremiah
Bumthwaite (age seven) has a sloppy swandive
Fortunately for the young Bumthwaite
the scuffed plexiglass obscures the vision of
the only judge a 10:27 a.m. eater of hashbrown
around whom a few seagulls washed in from the lake linger
either too proud to beg or just not sure how to be more direct they
bob & peck repeat laps clad in industrial haze
and wholly unaware of the cultural significance
coffee slurper who due to familial obligations
would overrate it by three maybe three-and-a-half
anyway It is said (tho no one has ever tested it)
that the tunnels –primary colors in prismatic
twist––viewing ports––slides and all– of a the single
PlayPlace if unwound would reach the moon
blue & cockeyed above them
and halfway back It is said they don’t fear the going
Rather it’s the back even halfway that bothers them the
theorists that is
The day belongs to the sky as far away as it’s ever been
pale gauze draped over us to keep all the aliens at bay
that a few more generations may insulate themselves
from the exhaust fumes of idling motorists waiting
wrapped around the building for a quick bite cheap enough
good enough
inside where scrapes simply amass bruises flower
like million dollar photos of nebula taken by faraway satellites
the tumbling passage of bodies over bodies
–the sky which every few hours fills with rescue choppers
swooping in low to blowtorch open a section a curve a straight
to free another soul Michelle for instance emerges from a yellow
upright with a college degree a management job
three children a side hustle an altogether unremarkable husband
and very few student loans
Jayce Russell serves as poetry warlock for the literary journal Outlook Springs. |
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