Amy Zhang

This evening, you have only:

a creaky yellow seat and a friend.

You finger the pale golden flakes

yearning to peel off the metal bar,

the creaky bar and the bars of the Ferris wheel

as it goes around.

You laugh,

pointing down from your rickety throne

at the roofs of the buildings laid out,

their edges melting into the dimming evening.

You look down,

you see first the little purple and white lights on the wheel that are

flashing and quiet by turns

above the panorama of green, red, blue lights all around as the wheel dips while

the sweet, warm smell of fried dough in the sweet, warm air rises

with the laughter and shrieks from the roller coaster that still has

a line of little people illuminated by the glow of the game booths,

so different from the beautiful darkening sky that stops

at the line of dark trees past the borders of the colorful scene,

and a cool breeze sweeps in from somewhere outside the hot cloud

that is filled with the strings of moving lights on the rides and the sounds of the riders,

sound of the seat creaking as it swings slightly,

wheel lazily passing round and round in big circles like summer nights do.