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The Carousel
My son
and a few other small pilgrims
stand on tiptoe
just peering over
and noses pressed against the gate,
hypnotically transfixed
as peasants before jeweled sacred relics
in some dim abbey nave,
watching the carousel whir round and
round,
tossing color
and deafening, garish old tunes
without regard.
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Riders gallop for their lives;
a little girl screams in terror;
another grins and giggles
embarrassed at her ecstasy;
a grandmother is perched
stiffly and unsmiling,
her mammoth purse bumping
and making her mare crazy;
she’s got a new perm;
and a boy, almost twelve,
desperately wants to be bored.
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We mount our favorite
frozen stallions:
bristled manes and tails,
mouths open, teeth biting wildly and
sucking the air,
glass eyes wide and nervous;
hooves claw at imagined pastures;
all mummified in wood, shellac and paint.
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The man weaves through the herd
and pulls the giant lever
to start the stampede.
On a great Buddhist prayer wheel,
we gallop recklessly
to cymbals, snare drums and xylophone.
There is some hope harbored yet
as in my son’s anticipation,
that these horses will, unfettered,
leap from their well-worn, mechanized
path
into the evening summer sun.
David Sapp |
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