Carousel Man
by Steve Knepper
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Carousel Man
Nobody trusts a carnie. That's a fact.
Some moms don't even let me lift their kid
up on a horse for fear I have designs.
Sometimes a local church meets at the grounds.
I feel the eyes when I get passed the plate.
I have a trailer in the Poconos
and work the ski resorts all winter long,
make furniture and cabinets on the side
to customize those overpriced chalets.
This job ain’t one I need to make ends meet.
Not that the carnie crew is full of saints.
I'm careful where I put my wallet down.
But bosses try to weed the perverts out
because they know that spot won’t wash away—
they’d lose their contracts when it hit the news.
I've seen some awful things at carnivals,
but carnies weren't involved in most of them.
One place was running dog fights after hours.
I couldn't sleep for all the snarls and yelps.
One time I saw a mother whip her kid
with plastic pipe out in the parking lot.
I served an army stint right out of school
but never saw a killing till this job—
some boy who won a switchblade tossing rings
and got the itch to try it right away.
Meth’s made things seedier in recent years,
with tweakers turning tricks in port-a-johns
or raiding rides at night for parts and wire,
their caved-in mugs as pale as graveyard ghouls.
I'm giving you the wrong impression, though.
The apple core ain’t close to rotten yet.
There's still a magic in the carnival—
the laughter that you hear, the way the light
looks on the spinning Ferris wheel at night,
the way it glistens on the children's eyes
when they go round and round the carousel.
Their parents wear this smile that’s bittersweet
because they want to give their kid a life
just like a pony ride that never ends.
The carousel's a marvelous machine.
I don't know where the company got it.
It’s really something else—our finest ride.
(I’d sooner quit than work the giant slide
or pirate ship with all those snotty teens.)
It has an inner row that rises up
and down, an outer row that's fixed for tots—
bucking broncos and regal quarter horses,
a prancing unicorn with golden horn,
a saddled ostrich, elephant, and seal
if you prefer to ride a wilder mount.
Two years ago, I made a horse for it.
A new guy didn’t look before he backed
into the setup zone and mangled one.
It bothered me to see that empty pole.
I spent my free time carving poplar wood
that winter. Didn’t take the extra jobs.
I ordered books off of the internet
and even visited a Jersey shop.
I worked by hand, with chisels and a mallet.
My first one was a costly, clunky dud
but then I got the hang of it and carved
the kind of steed to make a cowboy proud,
an appaloosa with its chestnut spots,
the varnish adding shine to every curve.
I took him in my truck that spring when I
reported to the warehouse where the rides
are winterized. I help with maintenance
before we hit the circuit for the spring.
Turns out they had already ordered one,
not even cast out of aluminum,
a cartoon pony made of fiberglass.
Mine never left my truck bed till the fall.
I won't deny that stung. I'd often thought
about the kids who’d race to get him first,
about the light he’d catch with every turn.
He sat in my garage for half a year,
collecting dust and bird shit in a corner.
But this past spring I showed him to the lady
who manages our little trailer park.
She plants some flowers by the northern gate.
I made a post and tiny canopy,
A one-horse carousel in miniature,
ringed round by zinnias and marigolds.
It's not exactly what I had in mind,
but he'll still stir some wonder in this world.You can listen to Steve reciting this poem over at the “podcast” HERE.
Steve Knepper grew up on a small dairy farm in Pennsylvania and currently teaches at Virginia Military Institute. Knepper is a widely published poet and the founding editor of New Verse Review. He has written or edited several books at the intersection of literature, religion, and philosophy.
Poet’s Note
I grew up in rural Pennsylvania where every small town would have its summer carnival fitted out with well-worn, low-budget amusement park rides. These carnivals were humble affairs, but they still had a magic for me and my friends: The Shade Gap Picnic, the Orby Homecoming, the Path Valley Picnic, the Huntingdon County Fair. One summer I had a job emptying the trash barrels and cleaning up the grounds at the Shade Gap Picnic. Without going into the details, this job introduced me to the seedier side of those smalltown carnivals. This dramatic monologue, while a fiction, aims to capture both the seediness and the wonder, and it does so through a persona that I hope shakes free of stereotype. “Carousel Man” was one of the first narrative poems I wrote, and it was originally published in the American Journal of Poetry (may it rest in peace) back in 2017. I am grateful to Mary Finnegan and the editorial team at Talk to Me in Long Lines for republishing it in edited form.
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