Summer structure is the teacher’s
double-edged sword: every day’s Sabbath, but
no one sleeps in. Restless pilgrims
open season, queue delirium: Take us, take us—
So, I gas the chariot to the Granite State.
A man’s shirt reads True Religion.
Our tickets reclaimed first—at the altar of what is
between the Dragon & the Corkscrew,
burned, ashed, screwed, opened—take it
as you will. Ready to praise &
accept the world in this incarnation,
the cigar puffing grizzly holding court,
who says, Either way, you’re gonna pay.
The pre-teens say the lake park’s lit
with the joy of assembly, people-watching
children I don’t have to follow. I’m dragged
to the Star Blaster, strapped in.
The local at my elbow is terrified. Glancing up,
the ubiquitous stickers, Live Free or Die.
For a moment, above the argument.
When my sunglasses are lost, Genesis assists
but they’re gone. The overcast sky means a thief
won’t discover the prescription makes them useless.
He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.
This afternoon we’re sweating sinners
in the queue or floating briefly on Da Vinci’s Dream,
the swings that nauseate my wife,
harnesses resembling diapers.
At the One Direction tribute band,
I wouldn’t mind it if the ground opened beneath their feet
into a Sarlacc pit, a yawning maw of preposterous teeth
snagging the boots of the one I guess is Harry Styles.
So be it, pony up for our traditional boon
at exit: three caramel apples.
Care’s carousel behind us, holiness & fear
of vertigo gone,
back to the good news of the pavement.
What they don’t finish, I will.
Image: Chair-o-Plane Motion by Kirt Edblom, licensed under CC 2.0.
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