Sid Miller

Like Bumper Cars

More worn out than the worn out image
of worn out photographs being sifted through
at two in the morning with all those sad songs
blubbering from the radio while wearing a necklace
of beads strung on dental floss that the younger
sister of some old lover made for a birthday,
are those thoughts
that run in no particular direction
that crash into each other to start new paths
all over again, like bumper cars at some cheap carnival
outside of Pittsburgh that you went to
after a wedding to look at people who wore tank tops
and mesh hats, where you hoped you’d find comfort
but instead found funnel cake and nausea
from all the laughter and hand holding,
the general sensation of living
inside of a home movie that your uncle shot
when you were eight years old and sitting on the toilet.


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