His hand passes in front of my face, its trail is all tobacco and wool and after shave with a wooden top.

He’s showing me the ticket he just bought.

The goliath in my periphery.

I can’t stand it.

Giant cacophony of the calliope.

Light and sound shrink me.

I can’t help it.

It scares me sick.

I know if I knock on hindquarters it will be impossibly hard and hollow.

The other kids can barely stand it.

Their glee is desperate and horrible.

They screech bloody and hysterical.

He talks on his phone, glasses reflecting the sun  so I can’t see his eyes and know who or what he is.

He wants me to get on it.

He wants me to ride it.

The day was warm and dense.

It’s cool now with a breeze so now a harbinger of inevitability.

Cold sweat down my neck and between my shoulders.

He brought me here for this.

To please me?

To make me happy?

Why does this matter to him?

Doesn’t he understand that I am afraid of this?

Here at the carnival and all I want is cotton candy and corn dogs and maybe a Ferris Wheel ride.

I had no intention of mounting one of these snarling mutes impaled by brass polls from deck to canopy.

It lumbers and wheezes, painted garish.

Portending violence.

He knows.

I know he knows.

He doesn’t want me to be thrilled.

He wants to witness my terror.

To absorb it.

To drink it.

He hands me the simple pink ticket and I have no choice.

My voice dries up and my will evaporates.

I walk through the gate and the grinding organ is breathing far too loud.

Its awful distortion hisses and confuses me.

I hate it.

I can’t stand it.

The deck rattles and sways under my shoes.

I rap my knuckles on its rump.  So hard it makes no sense and the thunk is hollow.

There is no choice but to mount the beast and hope for the best.

To be free of it as soon as I can.

I’m in a very busy department store and everyone understands but me.

No one looks at me.

No one sees me.

Sweat runs around my ears and past my throat.

There is no saddle and I can’t reach the stirrups.

Right from the start it feels on the verge, about to be out of control.

Nothing to do but to cling to the poll.

My hands wet.

Afraid for my grip.

If only I could be somebody else or someplace else.

He talks on his phone and laughs and I still can’t see his eyes when I come around.

He betrays not a single other thing.

Drinks for my friends.

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