A Pinwheel of Beautiful People

Sober as a bone but with enough popcorn down

her gullet she says, buoyant and invisible,

I'm gonna flash 'em, at the top of the toppest

I'm gonna do it. No amount of rubbernecking

can reach that high up the Ferris wheel, no matter

how many billows of tits waiting to be unfurled

on the wind as her friends goad her on, cloistered

in the cherry-chromed box as they rock around

like cockatoos shaking off their down winter

pea coats. So I trace their car while it bobbles

as seductive as sloped metal could be, the knobs

and bolted seams sashaying towards my empty

hands until the girls' caddy peaks, and a great

whoosh rises from the fairgrounds as she

unleashes her phantom tits on the world

like a libretto to hand lotion and scrambled

Cinemax, shadow plays taken to dark bedrooms

and rewound until right hands go raw and only

the mess is left to remember, and when my blue

bucket reaches the top of the wheel the girls

have bled into the crowd they drew, leaving me

hoisted there with sweaty palms to wander

the sagging tents for a consolation peak,

a word-drunk runaway palming the damp

glass of a cotton candy machine with

a loose blouse and shaded, fondling eyes.

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