On a Roundabout

Hang on, You're nearly There! I'm giddy, spinning around, So near, yet so far. On the slippery spinning dip of serendipity. Making do with the hoodoo of déjà vu. I've seen that scene before! On endless recycles of somewhere when and there. My prospectus is shod with slithery wooden clogs. Tripping, toppling precipitous, edging ever closer to flying right off the roundabout by the whirling surge. Whizzing around in circles on the impending. Barely holding on with hands and arms, billowing and centrifuging in the passing wind. Reaching outstretched to catch just what and when, could be just happening, could be just passing on by.