Swings
They told me that one day
my feet would be up in the air,
and the next they would be stuck
on the ground.
A roundabout, they said,
a merry-go-round,
with all the fun of whatever fair
happens to be around that day.
Someone, not me, flicks a switch,
music plays, the carousel horses
move up and down, slowly at first,
then faster and faster as day, music,
and horses all gather pace.
There are no reins. If there were,
I would heave those horses
back to whatever reality I left.
But what is reality now?
These hot flashes that warm my flesh?
Those cold flushes that make me shiver,
then turn up the heat
until I am sweating again?
Shadows grow. I pull less strongly
on the swing boat’s ropes.
My journey slows. The showman
raises the bar beneath the wooden hull.
Wish it or not, my journey grinds
to its inevitable end.
rogermoorepoet 