The Ache of the Empty Fairground

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The Ache of the Empty Fairground


Written By


David Steven Simon


I speak to my mom every day.

When we connect

the fragrance of memory arrives 

like prairie storm clouds

filled with

a dab of Chanel

and finger-painted lotions

which were applied

to the taut skin canvas

of her pale white legs

and shy ankles.

And there are sounds

that return from light years away:

the rapture of records

the duet of parakeets

the side show of television.

And just like that

I am back in our tiny borough castle

where the Queen

wore a crown of rollers

and the armor of a girdle

while the King pulled his dreams

like a plow horse

in the field of the family.


We talk

my mom and I,

covering the vast territory 

of nothing and everything.

I ask her about dad,

how he’s doing

because I know that he’s listening from 

behind the citadel of 

a snap-opened newspaper

where he spent most of his life hiding

behind the headlines.

In the end, 

when it’s time to go

I always say

that I miss her

and dad

which I have for years now

since they died

and disappeared

with the traveling circus of parents

who overnight

pulled up stakes,

folded their tents,

and without fanfare or notice

silently boarded the train

leaving behind

the ache of the empty fairground

where today

millions of orphaned dandelions 

stare at the sky

like children who

hold their breath 

and watch the acrobats fly.


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