Something in the smoothness
of machined plastic and polished steel,
something in the perfect warmth
of lights designed when electricity was not tamed,
carried in pockets, on wrists,
when things electric still warranted wonder,
still burned the curious touch like Franklin’s key,
takes me up and away, to filtered film reels
in the mind, to see through their eyes, untainted joy.
Our devices secured, we spin around
in seats engineered to hold us
like a father holds a child, sifting kernels of dread
for fine joy through a sieve of imagined danger.
And even with alert eyes, and encompassing arms,
and higher heights, and bigger drops,
somewhere inside, I am stretched wide with trust,
hurtling impossibly high, six feet above ground,
glowing golden in the encroaching darkness,
with newly-minted wonder.
-C. G. Brown