mervin

And one more.

Carny

The lights are bright on the midway.
There is a thrum of human voices,
the banter of the barker guessing weights.
A fair haired girl yodles Whitney Houston at the karioke.
The air is laden with the scent of onions: grilled, french fried, chopped raw.

As you walk, you strive to be wary of sneak thieves.
In the last tent, you find him under red lights,
in a pit dug in the carny grounds clay.
He smiles up at you, then in a rush of feathers and desperate animal cries,
he bites the head off a live chicken.
You wait for him after the last show,
and watch spellbound as he washes the dried blood from his skin, he dresses, dabs Armani behind his ears.
He takes you to the Waffle House for breakfast, you order and excuse yourself.

When you return and dig into your sausage and cheese omlet
the first mouthful grates against your teeth,
you spit it into your napkin, a half karat diamond ring.
When you brag to your friends they act concerned.

You have a civil ceremony, the midget and bearded lady, your witnesses.
You grow tired of making excuses while he scrubs blood from his body.
You have affairs,
with the strong man, with one of the flying Rivera's.
You run off to Vegas with an itinerate rodeo clown
and get a job at Circus Circus, as a cigarette girl.
Whenever the carny comes to town,
you are drawn to the midway and the tent with the blood red lights.