The Maypole Conceit, Part One
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It is midnight. I am tied to the maypole by the colored streamers which, earlier today, children held in their candy-stained hands while they skipped in circles around it. I can smell cotton candy and pony shit.
I wasn't always tied to the maypole.
Twelve hours ago, mothers wrapped their girl children in white and pink dresses and tied ribbons in their hair. Twelve hours ago, music played, and children danced and something vaguely pagan and vaguely socialist was celebrated, though most of the mother's just thought it was a nice excuse to sit outside and talk to their neighbors.
The Maypole is 8 feet tall and 6 inches around. My hands are going numb.
Ben Brown is having a case of the Mondays.