we walked through the waning hours of the feast last night…

the vendors were dismantling their booths with cordless
drills while the last orders of calamari soggied on the stainless.

waiters in red jackets perched on five-gallon buckets
to snip the sparkly fringe from the sign above their heads.

it was getting late and the carnies were cranky.
squirt-the-clown-in-the mouth-game #1 barker:
“lucky number 13 ain’t so lucky.
use lucky number 12.
12 is luckier cuz it actually works.”

squirt-the-clown-in-the-mouth-game #2 barker:
“yo, birthday girl – wake up. did you pay me yet?”

the crowd parts to let pass a man
with a parrot on his head,
a parrot on his shoulder,
an iguana in his arms and
a snake around his chest.

the zeppoli guy snorts, “he thinks he’s friggin’ noah.”

(photo dedication #1: paul lukas)