The Carnival

On the parking lot, at
the far end, the north end
where no one ever parks,
where the broken glass sparkles,
and the weeds sprout up
between the cracked asphalt
that hasn't been paved
in decades a carnival goes up.
Over night the rides
and tents appear, the colored
lights flash on and the fragrance
of hot dogs and popcorn,
grease and spun cotton candy
fill the air. It's there for two
weeks in July. The men and women
who take the money and disperse
the flimsy tickets are worn
and tired, with watery eyes,
dark and failed tattoos, old before
their time. Cigarettes, unmoved,
in the corners of their mouths,
the smoke swirling in their faraway
eyes. No one looks like anyone
you've ever known, a different breed.
From town to town in darkness
they move the machines, attach
the spokes for the dizzying
Ferris Wheel, the scrambler,
the kiddie rides. The bolts get
tightened, the bearings greased,
the pyramid of pins that can't
be knocked down goes up, and
the boxes of stuffed pink animals
gets dragged out. They won't be
given away too soon. But try
your luck, what do you have to lose.