My wife confessed she closes her eyes on 

the scarier rides and I’m unsure if I feel

relief that she sleeps on her fears 

or betrayed because I have a Birdseye view 

from heights I thought we’d face 

together as stated 

         in our vows.

She’s a talker and I’m a silenter—

          the clankety-clank of the coaster going 

          up… up… up…

and the tongue-tied pause just before 

the descent. 

 

The old barista asks the new barista,

What better way to learn than to jump in?

and I concur to cannonball is more effective

than to tiptoe

and an incorrectly made drink amongst 

small talk with customers beats 

being isolated in the breakroom watching 

training videos.

 

We said we’d challenge ourselves each visit 

by going on something that scares us 

and while a rollercoaster is the layman’s

life metaphor,

last week my daughter and I listened to a 

cover band playing in the park and 

I’d argue that a career of performing 

someone else’s songs 

is an even more apt comparison 

because she says, 

              At least they still have dreams,

and not giving up while impersonating 

someone else is the ultimate test of

being secure in your own long hair

and leopard-skin pants.

 

Next time, I’ll tell my wife we’ll raise our arms 

during the drop in solidarity

as if celebrating the first leg of a tour 

we take turns headlining:

 

                         the lead singer who belts out vocals like 

                         conquered nightmares, 

                         and the tight-lipped drummer 

                         tapping his foot 

                         like etching moments

                         into time.