The lurching loop

over and

over.

A screaming song and

dizzy gallop of a

dead horse,

I am familiar.

We are moving,

and never.

Turning somewhere

gilded and

dirty.

Somewhere stained by

sugar and spills,

cotton-candied fingers,

a rusty novelty

marred by

wide-eyed brats,

the nauseous burn of

too-bright lights,

and dripping sweets.

Somewhere there is a child

crying to leave,

their parents taking

blurry photos from the fence.

A drunk idiot at the helm

with cheap tattoos

and cigarette breath

steers nothing.

My mind- a carousel,

spinning again;

I am there,

stuck with my ticket stub,

gum on my shoes,

holding the mane of

some animal

reeling and bolted to the

floor.