One cool autumn evening
when the leaves are so crisp they
crunch,
the smoke tickles your nostrils,
and pumpkins dot the doorsteps,
you stand first in line to ride.
Up the ramp you go.
Slowly.
Calmly.
Stake your piece of the pie.
Soon, you stand on nothing—
back glued to the hot pink
wall inside, you go round.
Strapped in, you scream
till your throat's dry,
hold your arms up
till they ache.
Your stomach rises
up
and up
as you turn
round
and round.
Your throat won't close.
Your stomach won't unwind.
You force a swallow
as you whirl
round
and round
and round.
The sky grows dark.
The lights become streaks.
They twirl with you
round
and round
and round
and round.
Stop.
You stagger down the ramp.
You hang your head between
your knees, feel the AC chill
your neck, count to six,
filling, emptying your lungs.
You say, Yeah, I'm fine,
I will be anyway
once this car stops spinning.
You swing open the door,
fall to the ground.
Under the street light,
you crawl across
the pavement, scrape
your knee on the curb,
and throw up.
Copyright © Jo R. Hawke. All rights reserved.
