- He's bested bullies in schoolyards,
- dodged descending barstools,
- maneuvered mine fields,
- lost eleven buddies in the Gulf,
- heard a hundred women
- howl the deaths of their men.
- Decades of evasive action leave him
- wary that his luck won't last,
- weary of adrenaline bursts,
- yearning for tranquility.
- The perfect job makes it all go away,
- running a bright blue Ferris wheel,
- selling tickets to kids and couples,
- snapping the bar to hold them in place,
- high over the streets and fields
- of whatever town the carnival has come to.
- The old wheel has constant quirks,
- the gears and belts a cinch to fix.
- A few deft moves of his competent hands
- and it ratchets back into action,
- lifting its laughing cargo high and fast,
- not like the wussy wheels old ladies like.
- Bluest of skies, every seat taken,
- he laughs at the giggling girls
- and sends them all soaring.
- Something in the old motor stutters.
- He's there in a few swift strides
- bent, looking for the malfunction.
- The whirling wheel catches
- the ponytail he's grown to show
- he's no longer at war
- yanks him up by that hair
- snaps his spine on a high frame
- hurls him dead to the ground.
- The spinning girls' squeals turn
- to blood-spattered howls
- for a man, the smiling carny man,
- killed in a quiet country town.
- By a bright blue Ferris wheel.
