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,
were pinned by black bars,
caged in metal mesh,
shrieking.
Like a comet in space,
we threw our combined mass
forward and back,
forward and back,
rolling the chipped yellow car
over and around,
over and around,
over and around,
our stomachs whirling.
How many times?
30? 46? No--
FIFTY!

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