Politics

A small rural fair. Lights and noise.
In the background the thump of bass
and wisps of a country song from the band
and the far end. A few people hang around them,
cowboys for a night, dancing as well as
the beers in their hands allow.

There is the grinding of gears and the sound of motors
as the rides swirl and rise and fall and children scream
with smiles on their faces.
It is late enough that men are feeling like men,
man enough to play the games, shoot at things,
Throw balls. Slam the hammer down
sending the marker almost, and only almost
to the top. The bell rarely rings.

There are barkers at every booth.
An old word, that: barkers. A sign of my age
and the books I have read. They call out.
Cajole. Beg. Insult. Anything to bring people
to their booth for a chance to lose their dollar.

Here and there though, someone carries
a stuffed animal big enough for an armchair.
Just enough winners to urge the others, Intoxicated
by lights and alcohol and the promise of glory
to stand up and take their chance.

I am perhaps, too old for this.
Old enough to know the tricks,
to know the games are fixed.
to know that at my age, the rides make me sick.
Sober enough to know I am a poor dancer,
to see the slight of hand. No longer dazzed by lights
and promises, It is entertainment of the first degree,
a slice of America that comes through every four years,
takes our money, and runs.

I was never tempted,
like so many in the books I have read,
to join the circus. I am not up to changing the game.
I prefer my change in the years in between.
one small truth at a time, in the light of day.

About this poem.

This one did not start out as a poem about politics. But the parallels were crept in. Obviously we are still too close to the election for me to write meaningful poetry.

The picture was taken in nearby Rupert, Vermont, where they hold “Old Home Days” every year.

Tom