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.
Posted inPoetry
When the Bottom Drops Out
