Hanque O . . . - Ducks in a Row

For a staid, middle-aged man—
once cool, now not,
the midway of the carnival offers
less appeal than—

most things,
but he is drawn by young hands.
It is both better and worse
than he imagines—

better, in that it is something different,
worse, in that what he anticipates is right.

The small hand in his,
which he squeezes a bit tightly,
pulls him from one booth
to the next, one ride to the next.

Visually and aurally it is
too much.

The space around him
and his charge
becomes precious.

There are many images
which might serve later.
For now one strikes a chord—

the shooting gallery
with its ducks in a row.

As they pass on their circuit
he sees that a few have gone missing,
most are dinged,
none stand a chance.

Hanque O . . .

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ducks-in-a-row/