The Wooden One

It’s not old, just old-fashioned,

Built to creak, rattle, and scream,

To exercise nostalgia

And generate another

Revenue stream on the braid

Of coiled cyclones and bungees.

You like the rhythm of it,

The clatter slowing to shrieks.

It’s an inelegant beast,

Like yourself, scarier but

Safer. The truly gorgeous

Polycarbonate ciphers

Hide in the trees, muffle screams,

Exercise no nostalgia

Beyond the thing known as play,

The muscular sheath of force

That cycles around itself.

Play tolerates no trespass.