Tilt-A-Whirl

Standard

Grated steps,

Peeling paint,

And a cardboard ruler,

Showing the height requirement.

Pewter pistons,

Hidden hinges,

Standing cushions,

Abraded by time,

And centrifugal force.

Flashing lights,

Around the ridges,

And a long line,

Of patrons,

Brandishing bracelets,

Holding soft drinks,

Plush prizes,

And crumpled tickets.

The ride spins,

Blinking like a UFO,

Ready to launch,

And fly faster than light,

But it never does.

You stumble off,

A little dizzy,

To look for a new thrill,

“One more time?”

She says.

Your hair is mussed,

From the last six times,

She said that.

“Why not,”

You say,

As you turn back,

And stand,

At the end of the line,

Again.

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