Sweet Momentum

You must be a teenager to ride.

We summit the Zipper,
washed in waves of rock and roll,
overlooking dense August corn fields.
Bob and I, sixteen,
are pinned by black bars,
caged in metal mesh,
Like a comet in space,
we throw our combined mass
forward and back,
forward and back,
roll the chipped yellow car
over and around,
over and around,
over and around,
our stomachs whirl.
How many times?
30? 46? No--

Commanding forward momentum
in sweet exuberant control,
our young weight upends the world.