Diamond-plated steps,
peeling paint,
and a cardboard ruler
demonstrating the height requirement.
Pewter pistons,
hidden hinges
standing cushions,
eroded by time
and centrifugal force.
Blinking lights all around the ridges
and a long line of patrons
brandishing bracelets
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 gets off the ground.
You stumble around,
pretty dizzy,
ready for the next thrill.
“One more time?”
she says.
Your hair is mussed,
from the last six times,
she asked.
“Why not,”
you say,
while turning about face,
to stand single-file
once more.
The File Pile 