Neon lights at dusk. Spinning silhouettes in the dirt, a cigarette butt on rusted paint. The tribal fringe and fireworks. The smells of hay and grease. Oh, gravel give way to my pre-teen feet For this is my stomping ground Of summer love, Of sneaking out, Of cotton candy and sinful libation. The dust so engrained in the soles of my feet, like speckles on a duck eggshell. I sweat through my skirt on the mechanical beast, hurtling us both through the dark.