August heat precipitates
steady rain feathering
pink cotton candy swirls
and watercolor canvas pools
quivering in neon funhouse mirrors.
Sideshow games tilt
from leaded milk bottles
and greased crystal dishes,
shooting gallery rifles with bent sights
and barrels crooked as a raccoon’s penis.
Bearded bikers
sport tattered denim,
arms plastered
in purple ink tattoos
man the ride controls.
We ride the Scrambler, the Cyclops,
the Tilt-a-Whirl and finally,
the Ferris Wheel where we kiss
until our lips chap, then cozy up
in the black curtained booth,
my sweaty palms pressed
against her bare naked breasts
for the first time,
nipples pink and swelling
like candied apples;
exit through a mud puddle maze,
ghost image film strips
of blurred lives
and spent quarters
trampled underfoot.
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