When I squint at the cluster of torsos pinned 200 feet overhead,
I imagine my husband and son dangling in halters

in the front row, with loop tracking, giraffes, boulevards and city roofs
spread out to the limits of their peripheral vision.

I will belt-locks clamped; I’m chanting
“safe, safe, safe” under my breath

as suspension cuts to plummet-and-scream,
a sharp breeze and the smell of popcorn and the hard

zoom of wheels in grooves and the whoosh as riders
plunge through a pond and beyond,

soaking gangs of gigglers on the sidelines.
Shouts fade, metal scaffolding clinks

and holds for a second before a new load of shriekers
drops from the pinnacle. I listen to steel bars shudder

and let wild joy doppler toward me and away,
toward me and away,

a recurring tsunami that levels kid calls, wrapper crunkles,
school-group Spanish, sunscreen squirts, coin jangles

and guitar riffs, until even laws of gravity and Murphy
recede into ambient theme-park patter.                        

If you reach the valley of wildflowers,
don’t touch the killer Queen Anne’s lace.
All major east-west roads

have gone south, but the north still offers
several must-see sites, open Tuesday twelve to four.
Caution: the High Street bookstore is now

stocked with fish logos and soul snatchers.
Tropical travelers, steer clear of mosquitos
with encephalitic intent and be advised

that as of May, coastal towns will no longer exist.
In fact, the whole scenic route’s a mess.
We recommend you avoid tourist traps,

stick to that cool path through the woods,
keep an eye on the white blazes,
make fires, scribble on maps.