After the Carnival
After the carnival the gutters are filled with leftovers. Bit-o-Honeys and questionable waxed paper-wrapped “taffy,” the plastic gold and silver coins flung from floats. The garish paper flowers lie there with the mashed cigarette butts and discarded souvenir cups.
After the carnival the floats and the art cars rest empty. No one knows what to do with them. They wonder why it mattered so much, all the tissue paper and foil and paper mache and glue. All the effort and expense. Or they remember what they hoped for and how far reality fell.
After the carnival ends what was grand is now garbage, is what I’m trying to say.
We wanted so much for ourselves, and we got it, I suppose. But it never really feels like enough, does it? It never really feels like anything that matters as much as we hoped it would.