Buttered Soured Sweet Corn

Welcome to the Rocky Springs Amusement Park. It's 1966.

Attend to the music of the carousel.

Do you ride the Pony or the White Lion?

That's your only choice when you're nine or ten going on eleven.

As you spin, the scenery never changes.

Only the people change as they walk in and out against the background,

carrying balloons on strings, pushing strollers,

drinking sodas, Reading, Ballantine or Schaefer,

licking dripping ice cream cones strawberry and vanilla,

wearing white short-sleeves and Fedoras.

There's the funhouse full of scary clowns and the Conestoga River

floating suds from the toilet flush and nasty with mosquiters;

a picnic area where you can hide from the clowns that might eat you.

Old men and their brothers rest on shaded benches

smoking Pall Mall, Lucky Strikes, or Muriel Coronellas,

while their grandchildren pull their fathers

to the hot dog stand or ticket counters.

Your uncle and father rest talking about Richie Allen and the Mets,

the gubernatorial election and who to vote for Shafer or Shapp.

When it's over before leaving,

you go to the bathroom and stand next to a man

who can't stop looking down at your fingers

while he's moving his right hand.

On the way home, a State Policeman stops your father

and tells him he was touching the white line and he says,

“No, no no. I was riding the pony.”

Then he asks him if he is sleepy

and that he should be careful that the open can of Schaefer on the seat

doesn't spill and stink on the upholstery.

Your father says, he's not sleepy anymore but your mother drives home

so your father's not arrested.

Da Da Da Da Da Da, Da Da Da Da Da Da…

When you get home,

you throw up from eating buttered soured sweet corn.

It's pink mixed with cotton candy.

Your father goes to the bathroom.

You can hear him pissing and arguing.

He comes to your bedroom door in his drawls

and asks you how you're feeling.

You wonder if he is going to beat you but instead he goes to bed.

He already has rode the roller coaster once and now he's sad.

Your mother places a galvanized bucket next to the bed and says,

“Hope you feel better. You'll know better next time, won't you?

Good night. Do you want some water?”

It's your last chance. You say, “Yes.”

and she says, “You're a fucking pain in the ass.”

She hands you a glass of water but doesn't kiss you

because you smell like vomit and she smells like Pine-Sol.

They argue long into the night.

You turn up the radio and vomit only once.