KEIRA LYNN DODD

Wildwood 2009

 

The sky to the right
is windy black
and chills like a tickle
as we amble down the lane
of lights, a glittery thrill,
luminous and intoxicating,
beckoning entrance. 

 

The worn boards
give only a little and gently
jostle the stroller we push
where Ellie sleeps lulled
by the background laughter,
the jingle of slot machines,
the roller coasters that swoosh down
steep steel, or the wooden ones
that clack-clack-clack, the languid call
of barkers who tempt us
to spend trifles for trifles,
the shrill ring that harkens
a win— a blue monkey with a red
logotyped hoodie,
or a stuffed yellow duck
with a silly smile.  The ebb and flow

 

of feet, of sound, of smell—
the sizzling funnel cakes,
Curley’s Fries with cheese,
greasy pizza on every corner
(wordless aromas)—
even the faux-exotic
sunscreen, the heat that perfumes
the twinkling night.  Everything
mingles mellifluously.  We should be
distracted, but instead we are
deliciously delirious.  While Ellie sleeps,

 

we dream. 
We sigh. 
We hold hands.

 

There is magic here,
a simple spell,
an incantation in the incidental way
we walk the boards above the beach.
To some it may be insalubrious,
unsavory,
but it’s blissful, too. 
The calm we feel here is the peace
of manufactured history,
the tradition of simple pleasures:
a burger, a side of fries,
a root beer float.
This is a place where
it is easy to remember
that America
in all its degraded glory
can still be
beautiful.