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For hours, it seemed, they reminisced,
my father and the station-master,
while I, on tenterhooks, foresaw
a ‘House Full’ sign awaiting our
arrival at The Rink.

But all was well – the doors not shut,
the footlights dim, the curtain down,
the orchestra still teasing with
its tentative arpeggios as we
were ushered to our seats.

Expecting Harlequin and Columbine,
I felt, at first, a disappointed twinge;
then, responding to the comic ploys
of Widow Twankey’s expertise,
my laughter mingled with the mass
hilarity.

Capricious memory plays tricks:
no image of Aladdin or his bride
remains – yet words of Twankey’s songs
are with me yet.

For me, at twelve, the magic lamp
of hope burned brightly, with
its Genie ready to surmount
all obstacles – my only lack
the password to Aladdin’s cave.
And, happily for my peace of mind,
foreknowledge of the Abanazars fate
eventually would send to vex
me also was withheld.

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.

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