Circling Elephants

This winding southern trail
Looms the anonymity of a tree or two left standing
Just to decorate the road,
Like a poor man’s Christmas tree
Where all the holes are filled with tufts of tinsel...
Children cartwheel in anticipation of the circus
Which tents in August every year;
Headlined in the local press
With photographs of elephants
Walking head to trunk in circles;
As if the men in boots with whips
Were loved by every elephant
And by children who believed that elephants
Always wish to walk that way...
A passing hearse florals with a full month’ wage,
And slows like some old wagon train,
Moving through the snow;
Those who drive behind,
Keep their lights on bright
Through the grueling Alabama sun;
Thinking of the circus that the dear departed
Will miss this year
And in all the years to come,
Pulling at their neckties
Or patting down their skirts
In a silent gaze beyond the trees
To a place where the circus always comes;
Imagining the circling elephants
And children kicking up the dust
On this country road where nothing ever seems to change or grow.

Ken Siegelman
Brooklyn Poet Laureate