Tin plate's violet enamel veins in cracks,
and bits of straw spin in a puddle on its wall.
They spin and spin like a merry-go-round
at the fairgrounds.
Tin plate's beating sound
as rain crashes along its face
and into the ground.
The straw spins and spins around
like the tornado that tore the haunted house apart.
The fair is never whole now.
Tin plates ding in the fortune tellers hole-in-the-wall.
Read my palm or the fortune ball,
or perhaps my tin plate
lined with violet enamel
that turns colors in your magic hands.
Red for passion, black for pain,
blue for joy, and yellow
for rain rain rain,
that beats forever on my tin plate.
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