A Muse for Monday

The Roundabout
~ Ken Noyle

We ride the roundabout,
Our penny paid
By some unthanked philanthropist.
Round we go, round we go,
Merrily we hold the pole–
Rise and fall,
Drunk with the blaring calliope.
Our horse,
Our horse has flaring nostrils.
Its mane flies frozen in the wind.
Its eyes are bold, fixed straight ahead,
Its saddle gold, its tassels red,
Its gallop carved in wide midstride,
Its dappled sides quite free from sweat.
Round we ride the roundabout,
The other horses synchronized–
Some rise, some fall, some prance ahead,
Some stay behind,
And some flank us as we ride.

Faster and faster whirls the sound,
The outside blurs, we hold on tight,
But now our mind imbues our horse with life–
Its sweaty flanks now steam,
Its nostrils snort,
Its bloodshot eyes roll wildly in its head.

Now is the time
To let the reins flow through the hands
With careful sensitivity,
Or else the bit will cut our steed
And it may rear up on the pole
Which skewers it to the whirling roundabout.

We stare ahead,
But if you dare to tear away your gaze
You’ll see the giddy, whirling mass–
The maelstrom around us,
The abyss beneath the skirting board.

And, as we slow,
The spinning space become the flaking paint,
The tinsel drapes, the chintzy signs.
Now some riders must dismount
And leave the golden roundabout
And stand there helpless,
Watching as it gathers speed again,
Whirling and spinning,
The riders crouched against the wind,
Faces aglow, looking ahead,
Forgetting that they’re running in a circle,
Thinking the front lies straight ahead
And that they’re riding wild and free
Covering a thousand leagues–
And not the roundabout’s periphery.

As for me,
I’ll wait until the ride creaks to a halt
And proffer up my secret penny
And ride again.
But I’ll switch mounts,
For the horses, I’ve learned,
Are only made of wood,
But wow!
That unicorn is something else again–
I’ll ride him,
Not just round and round,
But out into the stars.