Great suggestions.

Here's what I just did with it.  Fun. 

   In the Maw of a Waterfall
 
I blame depth perception problems
for making my grandgirl and me
snail our way into the car wash.
I put the car in park and note
exposed plumbing on both sides.
 
Like a beast suddenly awakens,
huge blue brushes whirl and batter
down the sides and over the top.
She and I sit stock still but are caught
in the maw of a waterfall! 
 
Without warning, suds cloak windows,
blinding us to our recognizable world.
 
Though parked, the car seems
to leap forward, side mirrors
taking slaps and whacks.
Instead of clutching her book,
closing her eyes, or holding her breath,
she giggles with great delight
in the midst of a marching band.
 
We have no control. But for a moment,
we are swept away, swept away
from days she is missing
                                         her mother.
Then trombones grow quiet, a mist,
and we turn back into a snail.

in the wrong place!  Oops!

Pat,

I like this direction. 

I still feel pulled in directions: is the poem about the people or the beast belly?  What about identifying the beast so you can benefit from specific details?  I am not a fan of the repetition of the title in the poem.  Perhaps that will be cleared up by a singular theme.

Love your work.

Todd

The girl is reacting to the automated car wash. I do not want to say talk about her grief much, but she has lost her mother.  I hope that is the shock of the poem.

She is mourning, but the car wash automation surprised her and delighted her. It broke through her grief... briefly. 

I rewrote pieces as I considered your comments.  Thank you.  

   Inside an Automatic Car Wash
 
I blame depth perception problems
for making my grandgirl and me
snail our way into the lighted tunnel.
I put the car in park and note
exposed plumbing on both sides.
 
Like a beast suddenly awakens,
huge blue brushes whirl and batter
down the sides and over the top.
She and I sit stock still but we are caught
in the maw of a waterfall! 
 
Without warning, rainbow suds cloak
windows, blinding us to our known world.
 
Though parked, the car seems
to leap forward, side mirrors
taking slaps and whacks as the carriage
moves back and forth
washing and rinsing the vehicle.
Instead of clutching her book,
closing her eyes, or holding her breath,
the girl giggles with great delight.
 
We have no control. But for a moment,
we are swept away, swept away
from days she is missing
                                         her mother.
 
A light mist,
and then we are small and frail again.