The Circus

Larry D. Thomas

Carny

The Ferris wheel spins in the night sky
like the flywheel of the universe.
He sports a weird tan from countless

hours of exposure to neon suns.
The soles of his shoes are worn thin,
exuding from their cracks the redolence 

of popcorn and cotton candy.  His face
is the creased leather of a purse
of the poor.  Fluent in the language 

of thrills and the lure of stuffed animals,
he cocks his mouth, clamps his Camel
in the vise of his lips, and with the sound 

of air spewed from a stretched balloon,
manages his irresistible,
“How ‘bout another try?”

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