Seeing The Elephant
A scruffy summer country fair,
humid dust stirring.
The gypsy man with a walk like dance
said, “You want to ride, little girl?”

My legs stuck out straight as sticks
on the back of the elephant —
skin the leather of work gloves broken in,
heart bigger than my whole head.

The large slow lope moved my hips
in a figure eight. The man said,
“You like that, yes?”
I nodded, holding on — I was afraid

and did not want to stop.
Nothing stops the elephant of my dreams.
Riding over the hill, and down,
and on, and on.