by Andrew Merton

You feel a pinch and away you go,
a small boy again,
whirling through that corridor you’ve read about,
all the way down to a joint called Heaven,
a worn ballroom on Seventh Avenue,
where it’s still a dime a dance,
twelve for a dollar.
Your mother clasps you to her waist
and twirls you around,
her lilac-scented hair tickling your nose
while below you, long trains rumble
into a bright white station
where, soon enough,
black tiled letters will herald your arrival.
When you awake you’ll remind yourself
that although there is no hurry,
if this is death, you’ll take it.

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