Riding the Coney Island Cyclone,
It was Alice Ward that made you go no hands, wasn’t it?
You’re my grandmother,
Not wild like Alice.
It’s OK to have imaginary friends.
When you settle into the spoils of married life,
They eventually vanish.
Her impish smile lapsed many into wanting to take her with them.
An image to carry,
Lighter than carrying on with irrepressible Alice.
She was a master of the suggestive glance,
It could get her anywhere.
Perhaps on your wedding day,
It hastily rushed her back to poolside Brooklyn,
For fresh air and salt-water,
To be imaginary forever at Coney Island.