Don't Stare

A barker calls out, a tent awaits.
Leaning  into each other's safety,
we dare ourselves inside.
Shoving our trendy sunglasses,
our hip junior high cover, into our hair,
we push away dusty tarp
and  take baby steps forward as if playing
Mother May I  with the giant man, the first freak.

The line of people jostles, all gawks and snickers
and finger pointing.
The giant sits with a blank face
on a giant chair, almost a throne,
like  king of the freaks.
he seems almost like God and I know
I am guilty.

My eyes fix on the giant's shoes, his huge shoes.
Rose is looking at them too.
I feel like crying, maybe I am.
Rose's brown eyes are blinking really, really fast
I can't look again. "Don't stare," mother always says.
Rose and I know this kind of watching,
the army brats, the always new girls.
Start school in January or March,
watch the glares, see their eyes planning.

We run red faced  past the other freaks
into a darkened nook, into a sickly sweet smell
into fluorescent lighting  shining onto a fetus,
a ghostly white pup,  floating in formaldehyde
one quick glance at the two headed dog
who won't see us stare.     

My stomach hurts.
I wish I hadn't eaten cotton candy, corn dogs and funnel cakes.
I see nothing now except sawdust and peanut shells.
The tent opens  into welcoming Florida sunshine, into
normal.
Sunglasses back on. Cool chicks.