The Ferris wheel is small, rickety,
shorter than the squat houses beside it.
So when it stops with my child at the top,
no one panics. Without strain, I call to him,
see the thrill of slight fear glowing on his face.
A man speaks to a crackling radio in his palm
and with a squeak of slicker and boots,
a fireman appears for what must be the best
kind of rescue. A step ladder and he's a hero,
lifting the child in his strong arms, placing him
down by my side. I take the boy's sticky hand,
walk him through a din of arcade bells, vendors,
groups of teens with green flourescent circles
on their chests. We move toward the dark,
listening night while he tells and retells the story.
The Ferris wheel gaining height. His time in the sky
stretching out until it seems he waits there still,
his old life growing vague and insignificant below.