The Circus and the Play of Candle Light
the whistle blows,
closing down the mill
of the National Manufactory
as I listen - hard -
for the cracking sound
of my father's boots
on the stones outside our house -
walking heavy down
Ison,
swallowed in the broom-
sweep sound of the Falls
and it's the third night
of the the wide, striped tent
set up on Main
for passing circus clowns,
their
thin horses
waiting outside on Market -
hitched in a circle
to a post,
shoulders huddled
in the darkness.
The tent flap is closed
as we walk by it outside,
passing near the top hat man
four feet tall, standing on
a deep red box,
waving my father
to pay him -
ten cents for
us both,
eight for a man
on his own
and the seams (the seams)
are glowing in the candle light
and shadows
roam, from face to face
and through the cracks in my fingers
and men inside are walking
with legs eight feet high
and taking turns
tossing three yellow torches,
crackling with the sound of their burning -
with the sound of their burning.
KMC 9-25-06
