Poem: The Problem with the Carousel

The Problem with the Carousel

Time is short.

Hand him your ticket and jump the

whirling circle a blur of ponies children

screaming colored lights you find a

horse with a blue saddle the

ride begins grinding gears the

world afloat centrifugal joy the

breeze in your face the song

fills your head like nothing you

ever dreamed but the saddle’s too

wide the stirrups don’t fit and you

find upon its forehead a single

horn it’s not even a horse.

When you’re on.

the pony.

you can’t actually see.

the pony.

but you can see all the.

other ponies.

The ride stops.

The music winds away.

You step to the dirt but then you

see a pony that could not be

more different from the

first so you hand your

ticket and jump the carriage to

your steed with its platinum

tail and sparkling hooves the

grinding gears the world

afloat the spin of stars but

you cannot touch this horse it’s

just out of reach the lights

cut your eyes the song too

loud cotton candy a

lump in your stomach you

take three steps and you

leap into space and you

roll through the straw and

come to a rest with your

eyes to the sky.

You take your last ticket to

the Ferris wheel.

They stop to let someone

on and leave you at the top.

A plane crosses the horizon.

A stoplight turns yellow.

The carnival a tribe of

electric insects.

A line of people at the

whirling circle.

The music rises like smoke.

You trace the bruises and you

wonder

if you will ever

ride the carousel again.

From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV