That was the summer
they drove the Ferris wheel into town,
erecting it in the park—
and James Taylor and Carly Simon
sang to each other over the radio
and people paid money
to throw ping pong balls into small jars
for the chance to win a goldfish;
to throw darts at balloons
for a giant teddy bear.
The park smelled of beer and grilled corn
and from the top of the ride,
I could almost see the whole town—
down to the five and dime and up to the cemetery.
Those were the days before I knew words
such as mercy or duplicity or forgiveness.
The cotton candy melted on my tongue in sharp crystals.
The Ferris wheel was gone the next day,
my pocket full of tickets I couldn’t spend.
This one rattles me a little. The change is pretty abrupt and I am not sure that the child you would have been bothered by the extra tickets. What do you think?
I know that I was the kind of girl who hated to waste anything–especially festival tickets!! And I am grateful for your comment–I’ll let it cool and return to it
Glad you didn’t take offense at the comment. I love your writing and am getting ideas for myself from it. My poetry skills are pretty rusty at the moment.