90 Seconds

The raucous crowd piles in,
Chatting, laughing,
Laden with the types of spoils
A few cents at a garishly decorated stand can buy.
Brassy embossing boldly proclaims
“The 90-second circus. $2 for admission.
The finest show ever seen
Here one instant, gone the next.”
Perhaps it is the draw of the idea—90 seconds—
Instant gratification for so paltry a sum!
Money—what is money?
Here one day, gone the next
Money buys pleasure, that’s what.

Out steps the performer: slim, dainty,
Walking like he knows his thing
Beautiful in a strange sort of away,
In the unabashed smile and clean white lines.
Everyone roars in anticipation—
After all, who
Would not cheer for a bright young hero
A new star on center stage?

The ringmaster shouts,
Cracks a whip.

The chaos starts.

Here! A clap of thunder, and a burst of fire
Golden sparkles in the air
He strides with purpose, mounts the ladder
Fine acrobatics over it all
Fearless! What’s to fear?

Ten seconds and they lean forward, realizing
He seems uncertain, falters—
A cloud of doubt passes over his face—
He stops in wonder, stares around
Creeping indecision—what to do?

Steps here, steps back
Turns right—no—here! A tentative experiment—
Something new he tries.
That’s not fine—
Not the way that it should go—
No, it’s this way!
How dare he change?

“Farce!”
And an audience so expectant frowns
The eyebrows crease, the mutters start
And there he is, just realizing
That all the world is watching.

A leap, a bound,
Heady determination
Through hoops of fire, on the high trapeze
Dashing now, to make up for time
Ah, yes—here’s what they waited to see!
That’s what he should do.
Smiles again on the fickle people
This is proper.
This is right.

Thirty seconds—fifty—sixty
He seems to start to flag
Mouth working, sweat streaming,
He stops at last
Sudden comprehension—but he can’t run now
It’s eighty seconds in and there is scoffing from the crowd—
No one else saw the fatal error
The time he should have turned right, not left

But he knows.
But he knows.
And the knowledge stains his suit of white.

Through smoke and fire,
High and low,
An instant captures a year, a century
Pictures flash—what should have been—
How could he have been
So careless?
Let his haste, the moment
Get to him—

Best to keep mum—
Put on a face—
On the stage, no one knows—
Best to keep mum about the mistakes he made
If they knew, he’d be ridiculed!
Maybe—
If—
A final leap—
A final turn—

The ringmaster cracks his whip again.
The moment is gone.

He’s left with his undying regret
The knowledge of what he failed to do
And they have long since forgotten
Everything they saw.

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This is life, and these are choices, indelible marks on your page; you can't turn back the clock--and who's to know, anyway, in the rat race of a life?