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.