Summer Carnival

 

The Carnival of

outrage, with its

many spinning and

looping rides, may be

missing a few screws,

but you are tall enough to ride.

 

I bought a ticket for the

boardwalk, and heard the

side show talkers shouting and

shimmying for a dime,

as they picked our pockets

as our backs were turned.

 

The juggling jugglers,

juggling other jugglers,

who in turn juggled still

more jugglers up into the air,

a tower of twirling hands and bowling pins

spinning in infinite loops.

 

Seeing the two-faced boy,

floating in the brine,

under-lit with intensely bright

light, showcased oddities,

graced with glamor and

 a certain je ne sais quoi, glee.

 

The line for tent for the Ladies of France,

who dance in their underpants,

is 40 men deep, shoulder to shoulder,

it’s quiet, but simmering

with too many hands in pants pockets,

and too many hats pulled low.

 

The shows and the extravagance,

the bright lights and flickering neon,

hiding the piles of elephant dung,

flung over the wrong side of

the railroad tracks,

where I left my shoes.

 

It is best to not,

go around kicking rocks

in your socks,

or cartwheel over eggshells,

on the edge of a

Carnival of outrage.