I’m whirling about
There’s fruit I’ve never seen
And chainsaws
Hanging from the ceiling
Collections of rusted
And nostalgic
Remnants
Playthings of my
Past memory
The people here
Mimic the eclectic offerings
Every part of the group
Teems with
Individuality
I feel cherubic laughter
Quiver my lungs again
I head for home
Clutching a book
I acquired
From this impeccable
Trove