They came down from the highlands
in their battered convertibles
with
the rusted trim,
those proprietors and promoters
of the world's greatest shows,
In search of a unicorn -
the unique freak
that no carnival
could be complete without.
After an afternoon
of endless searching,
in every sleepy
beer stained saloon
within twenty three miles
of where they had paid some gypsy
to
tell them
where it should have been,
their patiences were depleted,
their car exhausted,
so they settled
instead
for some destitute farmer's
sad plow horse,
which they dyed blue
and then stuck on
a candy-striped
papier-mâché horn.
And housed inside
the battered remains
of some moth-eaten tent,
the people
all paid their quarters
so they could come inside
to scoff at it.
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