the carnival worker

the carnival
worker, with missing
teeth and a tattoo
of a skull
and crossbones
on his chest,
bared by his oily
denim vest
takes your three
year old child
into his hands
and places him in
the tilt a whirl.
straps him into
his sticky seat.
it's a kodak
moment, one that
you wished you
would have snapped
if you didn't
think that the man
would have
taken a wrench to
your head.
instead you hand
him two tickets
which he tears
in half and grins.
it's as if he can read
your mind. stand back
he says as your son
waves with his
tiny hand,
and the machine
sends him high into
the air,  oblivious
to the world
that awaits him.