I’m not sure
if I’ll ever get everything done.
If I have accomplished anything.
My life is a carousel,
up and down,
round and round,
laughter and shrieking
from those on the ride.
Stern faced widows,
children hanging on.
Myself,
seven ages of man,
wondering,
what have I done?
When does the ride end?
How did it begin?
How many miles have I gone?
Where am I going?
Will my feet be steady getting off?
Will someone call my name?
Will I have my wits about me?
In Italy,
I rode a carousel with Mary.
An evening heaven put on a stamp.
Where geraniums blushed
with mouths so red,
their lips never recovered.
There, on that carousel,
life stood still,
and people waved,
and I waved,
and Mary called,
how much fun it was!
Is there enough fun
to go around?
Fun for a lifetime,
renewed when we ride the carousel,
asking,
how close is anything?