I find myself in a world of magic and mystique,
But that’s just job.
“Is it real?”
I am asked a hundred,
a million times a day,
even though the tickets were bought for the fantasy.
“I’ll let you figure it out for yourselves.”
I answer back,
while they convince themselves
that it is.
All around me, not co-workers
collude to con the willing
with fire and faery wings,
with corny jokes and balancing balls,
with a drink made from twelve shots of espresso and chocolate syrup.
We stand all day,
or sing all day,
or weave all day,
I even know a man who insults people all day.
all the while
our offerings are more heartily, wholesomely real
than anything outside of our gates.
Then there is cannon
and a line of yellow tee shirts walking up the hill.
We loosen our laces and take off our boots,
some of us smoke
and some of us drink
we all eat ravenously
and sleep soundly
because in the morning it all starts again,
we are exhausted but ecstatically hooked.
It is the day after tomorrow when the real magic happens.
We retire our bodices,
and cod pieces for the week,
and trade them for comfortably slouchy,
dubiously matching clothes.
This is the time when stories are told,
when barter is done,
when connections are made
or renewed over potatoes and eggs,
bagels and cream cheese,
coffee and ice tea.
Clubs are thrown for the delight of it,
the master gives generously to the novice,
tricks are shared and marveled at
all in the fine sunshine of late fall.
And the work!
The work is hard and often frustrating
but there is always a smiling face strolling by,
a hand willing to help,
a friend in need of a hand.
The sound of a saw echoes in the empty lane,
the screech of a hawk and the tinkle of its locater bell,
the faint voices of a television three doors down,
the clackety-clack of the loom,
with an occasional curse thrown in for good measure.
Steve comes by to tell stories,
Stacey’s dogs, watch from their balcony,
Zack comes by to flirt,
Loki comes by looking for Teelin,
Tony comes by with a joke,
Starr talks of her daughter,
Quinn serves the coffee,
Shua dances with his ribbons,
Angela tells stories of super heroes and NPC’s
Yo Mon sells her clothes
and Julie rubs people’s shoulders.
We are the village.
We are home.
©2013 Annette Meserve