Sari Krosinsky


the roller coasters always get the nice girls

i am not a roller coaster.
i am a moving walkway—you know,
the kind they have in airports.
no bumps.     no curves.
you wanna know where you’re going,
just     look straight ahead. but you’re distracted
by the bars and magazine racks
    slipping past, the amusement park brochure
with its glossy         three-loop giants,
        the minute hand ticking down
to flight time, the swinging hips
    three steps ahead. so i

surprise you,         catch your soles,
make you trip     at the edge.
i was hoping you’d look back,
grip my railing.     you pause
to straighten your slacks
and your scowl, hardly notice
i ever carried you.         you want
the roller coasters, the twenty second
                            screaming plunge
into an upset stomach.
by the time you check
your boarding pass,
you’ve already forgotten riding me.