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the barker after-hours
"The Barker After Hours"
Hear he. Hear he, staying on
after the gates are chained,
walking the length of the midway
with a torch that flickers like a tired star.
A few coloured bulbs keep their vigil,
constellations pinned to the pitch‑black
as if the night sky was a circus tent
where the carnival once stood.
The machinery has hunched into itself—
no brass‑bright music now,
just the low domestic murmur
of motors cooling, belts settling,
a distant clatter like dishes in a sink.
From far off, even the small creatures
step off their wheels,
their tiny circuits paused
as though the whole world
has agreed to rest.
He checks the stalls one by one,
counting what the day has left behind:
a stray ticket stub,
a feather from a costume,
a smear of colour on the boards
where someone leaned too close.
He notes each thing in his pocket ledger,
not for profit,
but because night
unfolds to be witnessed.
At the coaster’s base,
he listens for the last sigh of the track,
that faint metallic settling
that tells him the day is truly over.
He touches the rail—
warm still—
as though greeting a friend
who has worked too hard.
When he reaches the Ferris wheel,
its lights blink in slow rotation,
a quiet sky-map
drawn by human hands.
He stands beneath it,
letting the colours wash over him,
a private ceremony
for a place that will wake again
only when the crowd returns.
Then he locks the final gate,
turns toward the empty field,
and walks home through the dark
carrying the soft afterglow
of a world that only fully breathes
once everyone else has gone.
.
