Jour de Fete

Jour de Fete

by Kelp

When the merry-go-round came to our village,
the great wooden horses stacked together on the back of the open flat bed truck rolled slowly and shakily down the dirt road,
and the children followed in behind, skipping and galloping after the truck.

When the truck stopped in the village square,
all the village children,
including one small child with no pants on,
converged on the truck
and helped to unload
the horses and the poles.

There was an old woman,
dressed in black,
a plain black bonnet on her head;
she walked in a stoop, her face pointing downward toward the ground,
a small speckled goat trotting beside her,
that she led with a rope,
like a dog on a leash.

There were many others in the village --
the workers,
the grocer,
the barber,
the lovers,
the conmen,
the musicians who played in the marching band,
the young women dressed for the fair in their pink dresses and high-heeled shoes –
but the postman,
tall and wiry,
with a pencil moustache,
dressed in his postal officer’s hat and uniform,
coasting down the dirt road
on his bicycle,
to deliver the day’s letters and telegrams,
swatting away flies that buzzed around his ears:
he was the one to take charge of all the festivities.

His skills were needed to raise the flagpole,
to shout with authority “on my command”.
He’s the one to give the command;
they all respond on his command.
“On my command,” he shouts.

Next he’s called to fix the piano, the one inside the tavern;
no one can dance without a piano.
And everyone wants to dance and drink.
They ply him with whiskey to get him drunk,
but no one can drink him under the table.
Oh they try to make him the butt of the joke,
but he is immune to that.
He mounts his bicycle, American-style,
finishes delivering the letters and parcels,
cakes and boots and telegrams.
Then he’ll join in the harvest, with a rake or a hoe,
and stay till the fete is complet.