on a bench. A woman’s yelling “Ro-ry!”
as grown-ups go by skipping with their kids
till superego’s wagging finger
puts them sharply back in step.

A wrist-slashing jingle repeats itself so that
I see the attendant losing it,
ramming the throttle on full pelt and running
screaming into the Lion pit.

Those cockatoos seem happy enough,
and a red-arsed monkey’s
attempting to brain another with a stick
while a third looks on masturbating.

All things considered, It’s quite heroic really,
families making a stab at it under
an August thunderscape - though Rory’s
mother’s at it again (what could he be up to?).

Then at ‘Thunder Mountain’, I pass a man dressed
as a pterodactyl, and a strapping young lass
in t-shirt and shorts with an ad across her chest
which I try not to read.