Who could upset the bark

bullied from the depth of his chest

at an awful rate, but clear

as the sound boot heels

make in hard dirt?

Hearing the same lines each

turn of the fair we see him

dustier, but no less fierce

for the sun's perfect set

on his full height the hawk of

syllables pulls up.

When dark hustles the last stragglers

off grounds he, rounding

torso to knees,

squats down to massage

the loops of his hucklebones.

He started like this --

hunkering hips on a sackcloth

stretch of market, peddling

to passersby from a basket in which

his horse might tow

bargains or the warm air home.

Then huckster, hawker, peddler

barked the dreams

from others' brittle tongues.

No beast to help him now:

he has community . . .

the camp whores, geeks, and animals,

lamplit tents where men wash down

the noises of trade.