Scotty Turner - Unsplash
The Tilt-A-Whirl as a Substitute for Breath, Arms, Legs, Hair
The weeks pass, and snow begins to appear
on stalled carnival ponies
as if they’d frighted themselves
into stone sculptures.
Still, the tilt-a-whirl sits.
Since I last breathed your licorice
hair, months after we tangoed &
shared blue cotton candy,
screamed with joy,
everything’s stopped. Wooden seats
are bare but for this one, where
I sit primly clutching my purse,
as booths down the sawdust road
echo with rifle fire.
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