We search the spring for carnivals
and find St. Charles in Toluca Lake,
so we go, as if we could drive by
all those neon rides making geometry
in the sky. Dirt on our feet, a shattered
rainbow of raffle tickets confetti
the ground, and kiddie cars turn you
in tight circles twice, punctuating
your dusk with delight. It could be
thirty years ago: Teens in crop tops,
goldfish in plastic bags, ribbed beer cups
in the hands of red-faced men
who clearly need a drink. A hotel band
does its best with oldies as grannies
toe tap to All Shook Up. Missing
are hot zeppoles in greasy bags
and the Virgin Mary pinned with dollars.
Otherwise I could be eight again:
tight braid, mosquito bites like quarters,
the flying swings spinning my heart out
on a chain as fireworks become
exclamation points sparking
the sky with chromatic rain.
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