It's the last fast drop of the season, and we scream! The blue tips away. We're hurled like a swing, and the air bites cold this autumn day. The cars on the Wonder Wheel lurch and glide--surprise! they slide! They sway. Bright as a gull's wing, gleaming, the Cyclone rises like a seaside sun, runs along the midway that slouches, shuffles, hawks its fun. On this Coney Island Saturday, the air blares with rap, the barkers beckon and bray. We laugh and gape; we run, two kids, again, at play today. And the clouds swing past, spinning in the bright blue blaze. We rush the edges, ride the rises, snug in the naugahyde hug of the seat, with the world laid out distinct and small. Hands raised, we shriek our glee. We fall, laughing, we fall.