Toby** Poem by Morgan Michaels

Except for a ray of light peeping through a slit in the canvas like a spotlight, it was pretty dark in the tent where they practiced, mornings, for what seemed months but was really only weeks. After your eyes got used to the light it was fine. Mademoiselle Jeanette was helpful and gave him tips about 'smart' things like gravity centers and what to do if you toppled off your horse and how to roll and break your fall and get up smiling and bow, anyway, like it was nothing. One day, after practice, she led him aside. Gravely, she told him her mother had been a circus rider, though dead now, so she guessed it was in her blood. All things considered, she didn't mind life on the road and thought it was better than lots of things. She was perspiring lightly from all the practice. A lucent bead of sweat dangled off her nose, till she dabbed it with a hanky. She told him of her life, sounding woeful at times and at others, satisfied enough. Toby thought it was sad, even the happy parts, but that might just have been him. He said the work appealed, that he could handle it. He said he'd had a costume made of blue silk, which sort of matched his hair, which was red. He had to wear a 'protector' which made him feel strange at first. But he worked hard and tried to concentrate, because Pittsburgh would be in three weeks and they had to be ready.