A Muse Meant Only

A slow descent
from atop Palisade’s cliff,
our paneled station wagon
bumper to bumper
made sure not to hit
in the summer of ‘66
a perfect day
slowly disappeared,
not before one last image
snuck pass our drooping eyelids;
Ferris’s giant wheel
circling the stars
right before we fell asleep
to the steady rhythm of
Goodyear’s going round
meeting the road
on our way home
where we dreamed
of days like this one
in the back of dad’s Chevrolet.