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.