The Carnival



The Carnival

At the fire station –
cotton candy – caramel apples
and the merry-go-round
but I knelt near a window
a shade half blocking my view
I heard music from the
merry-go-round. . .
same song
same horses –
same people from
our village standing in line.

I leave the porch to
sit on worn steps, chipped
paint catches cotton.
I stretch my legs to kick some
stones, and scuff my shoes.

You are not here to yell.
You are not here to watch
me cross a street –
you are not here to hold me
when the horse moves up and

You are not here to hug me.

A small road crosses in front
of the old porch where cars
park near weeds, near grave
markers, those dead from the
I wonder if you too can hear
the music?
I wonder if you too can see
flashing lights?

You are not here to keep my
hands warm, but next to all those
parked cars, you are still there –
still riding the merry-go-round
at the carnival. . .
but, you forgot to say goodbye.

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Angie's Diary