He came riding
on an old red bike
sans the handle grips,
plastic milk crate strapped
to the back.
Inside the store he came
dripping sweat. His leathered skin
was marked
with hand-drawn carnival scenes
set in ink. To him I said,
"You're with the carney playing at the fair?"
Sheepishly, he hung his head,
then looked me in the eye, held my gaze,
proudly said, "yes, yes, I am."
I gave a great big grin, "my grandpa
owned a carnival once upon a time."
His eyes opened wide and a chat began.

Nearly forty years of carney life;
Father Time, hard work, beer
and cigarettes
were etched across his face.