These dreamers sat at the window

Sipping coffee staring at the line of

Dogs from the neighborhood who had

Slipped their collars dancing on their

Hind legs, spinning like the colored strands

Of streamers in the cold wind.

Plumes of music and exhaust fumes belched

From the motors of the barrel organs. The

Streets were closed, crowds of people

Waiting their turn to eat, to spill

A drink, to throw darts at a balloon,

An axe at an apple on the head of

Their youngest son, shoot skeletons

In a saloon, pitch baseballs at ancient

Monuments for prizes.

The real prize, thought one,

Is in a tent that holds the sky

And it is so large no one pays

Attention. Admission, thought one.

There is a show, thought one,

Inside that tent. Thought

One, it’s time.

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