We meet in eyes, stark sure
the Lie is gone. I, in stoic-trance
you, eyes pinned, lips tremble
their dumb acceptance.
The place we are is near:
I am five. My green world
hitched to your seasoned hand
hoisted to a shoulder-seat
above the midnight stand
of initiates; our eyes arc lights
for switching. We crowd
against the cold fall rain
roustabouts fling down a ramp.
The elephants first out
drag tent poles and tarps, stamp
in mud, clank chains; men shout
swing kerosene lamps, unload the train.
In our world (my mother not there)
we thought to meet circus trains
bringing The Greatest Shows
on Earth always. Only rains
drum sure as your life goes.
Father, there are no schedules here.