Vox Populi
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Doug Anderson: Carnivale
See them moving through ground fog
like fly-casters wading against the stream,
the moon rolling with them
in the spun glass of it. Old trucks
offload beams, chains and cable.
Bacon fries somewhere near.
A flashlight moves as if by itself,
lights a featureless face, a hand.
Headlights on, then off, and someone
whistling a half note flat,
the awful warbling kind in this predawn fug,
a lost bird keening.
I follow a cigarette through this gloom
and then hear a shout, the circle of lights
of the Ferris wheel
blooms in a honey swatch of sky.
Someone tests the motor,
empty seats rock and at the very top
a woman, her long hair blowing
near the lethal gears, unconcerned,
looks east as if for someone
who didn’t show. I smell cotton candy,
see folks top the hill and come down,
a small dog running in and out, and then
my own dogs startle me.
I look out the window: nothing. Gone,
Like so much else, just gone.
Copyright 2024 Doug Anderson
Doug Anderson’s books include Undress, She Said (Four Way Books, 2022).
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Gorgeous poem/photo combo!
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Thanks, Terry!
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Wow!
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What a BEAUTY of a poem!!
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Isn’t it, though. I love the way most of the poem describes in detail an illusion in the fog.
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Man, oh man.
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Doug is great, isn’t he?
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Yeah, Doug is great, isn’t he?
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Without a doubt!
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Without any doubt!
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