I am the Barker,
Lesser staged, all enraged;
A mustachioed siren calling,
hands out I beckon, harder as they reckon.

Leading back the timid,
my cane parts the curtain, a nickel from each certain;
The innocent veil their eyes but peak around,
pupils tag your every curve, blushing attentions swerve.

You stand with conscience tightly veiled,
eyes distant and cheeks redding, clothing shedding;
Steely eyed you regard the crowd,
jaws slacking eyes glazed, each blameless, phased.

But right as the last layer is exposed,
your fingertips quivering, the audience shivering;
I tap my cane and tell a quick tale,
even if it’s lies I weave, anything to make them leave.

With a tap and a point I direct them away,
they remember propriety and guilt, climbing pillars they’ve built;
As I pass you I’ll smile behind their backs,
and point them to the next tent’s sign, grinning because you’re mine.

—-

Just had the odd urge to write a poem about a barker and his stripper wife, a la a 1890s medicine show and circus’ sideshow.