The Satellite

In the dream, I journey
back thirty years
to a sunset in Pittsburgh,
August air scented
with spun sugar, popcorn,
hot dogs.

I stand alone in a crowd
of boys and girls,
as they laugh, hold hands,
share straws,
taste cold ice cream lips.

Beyond,
the spinning Satellite
dazzles with speed and
flickering lights --
red, white, gold --
through air whipped into a breeze
of sweat and perfume.

The Satellite tilts toward the sky;
girlish squeals of glee
leave me longing --
a boat for two adrift in the lagoon,
an embrace beneath the maples,
a first kiss.

Scott Speck
03/17/99