By Brad Wagshul
Fall colors winked in my rearview mirror, then faded.
“Was that a forest?” I asked.
No, you thought but didn’t say. I somehow understood. It was a carnival.
“So those bright colors,” I said. “The midway?”
You didn’t answer.
The fair whined and howled back to life. Reds and blues flashed in the distance, approached, blinded me.
Rides pushed and pulled, dragged me out and down.
Stomped and handcuffed me.
A pale, breathy man spoke cop-speak.
He saw you: wide-eyed, stiff. And me: smiling, red-streaked. Knife beside me.
“We’ve been to a carnival!” I exclaimed.
Or maybe a forest, you thought.
I imagine your work as pieces of a jig-saw puzzle in box with no picture on top