She is a carnival of lights
her hair a yellow tilt-a-whirl,
her eyes a house of mirrors,
and the air around her swirls
with the dizzy promise of prizes.
So I joined her crazy games,
my skill against her rigged devices:
blunted darts which wobble askew,
bottles defiant of my mighty arm,
and rings too wide to wiggle home.
Finally I stood with pockets defrauded,
in the mirth of prizes unclaimed,
and turned my back on that mocking cacophony–
only to find I was alone in an empty lot
littered with kernels of my dreams.
© Brad Skiff