Unamused Poem by Adam Hoagland

Waste three hours
and several dead dinosaurs
screaming at the screamers
and threatening to turn around.

Spiral in low gear,
bumpers flashing by, head bowed,
tongue dragging in the dust,
hand out, begging for a parking space.

Fall into line,
a conga fit for a trauma ward,
snaking back and forth, hip to hip;
but nobody's festive -
nobody kicks on four.

Seated, finally,
a few coins lighter,
grip the metal bar
like a draft horse clamps down on the bit.

In that quiet pause before the first jerk,
dream of your empty hammock at home,
and reflect
on how far you'd come,
and how much you'd give up,
for the thrill of going in circles.

- ARH 10/8/11