the ghosts of those

Maria McLeod

Our legs dangle over the edge of this Detroit 
rooftop.  The eight-story Uniroyal tire,  
a clearly visible sentry, presides over East I-94.
Below us foreign cars, once hated entities, stop and start 
at the intersection of a Domino’s Pizza
and a 24-hour party store, still selling 
Stroh’s Dark and Zig-Zags as if it were perpetually 1974.
We are would-be lovers.  Like would-be assassins, 
or would-be rock stars, we’ve become good 
at dressing the part, but display no skill
in creating convincing characters.    
We hold hands and whisper, I can’t
resist you, even though we can and do resist.  
Instead we drink straight from our shared bottle, blow kisses
at traffic lights, and toast our steadfast spouses 
who know us too well to suspect the worst. 
The truth is evident, if only to us: the giant tire
was once a Ferris wheel until it was encased 
in rubber, forever entombing the swinging seats.
It holds the ghosts of those who left the fairgrounds 
for the treetops, sweetly kissing the curve of the horizon,
their world below rendered miniature.
Even now, we take joy in remembering
the expectant, upturned faces of those in line, 
standing where we once stood, blissfully unaware 
of how small their lives were about to become.