Can one, unsuspecting, lift a flap, step
into a tent, find oneself perhaps transported.
Flashing lights of the Ferris wheel, shriek
of Cyclone riders, move me to another dimension.
Here, inside canvas walls time has stopped
or not progressed. A fresh faced youth,
hair slicked, cap in hand, shoulders back
at awkward attention avoids his mother's beaming tears.
Stands, as he did one hundred years ago
behind the steer he raised, hand fed,
brushed glistening brown, then
brought before the judges in pride and fear,
to have his moment memorialized,
photographed, before they both disappear forever.
Comments