“At the Concession Stand” by Nancy Byrne Iannucci

The small man at the concession stand
bounded off one countertop to the next.
A trapeze artist couldn’t swing,
couldn’t hang like him—
they’d fall to the ground,
ensnared by cloudy circus air.
 
It was the summer of ‘78,
Grease is the Word, is the Word, is the Word
blared from his transistor radio.
He had a finesse I couldn’t stop staring at.

My roller skates were too tight,
but I dared not bend to loosen them—
I’d miss him. I was afraid he’d disappear
like Santa and one of his elves.
We kept watching him—my friends,
who were a few years older than me,
with combs in their back pockets.

They tried to keep their laughter in check,
but I knew this Puck-like creature could hear their snorts,
as he leapt and spun from hot dogs to Cokes. 
I didn’t want it to end, but he gave us our change.

We skated back to my dad’s station wagon.
I was in awe, looking back not once but three times,
as my friends carried on about Three’s Company.

When we talk about that time back in ’78,
my friends often recall the summer heat,
Grease, and the hot guys
they met at the roller rink.

I remember this brave man,
who I believed rode home on a snail
and lived in a mushroom. 

---

Nancy Byrne Iannucci is a writer from New York—her work has appeared in Thrush Poetry Journal, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Eunoia, 34 Orchard, Maudlin House, and San Pedro River Review. She is the author of four chapbooks and is a two-time Best of the Net nominee. She was also short-listed for the 2025 Poetry Lighthouse poetry prize. When she is not writing, she's roaming the fields near her home in upstate NY or playing with her three cats: Nash, Emily Dickinson, and Rocky—www.nancybyrneiannucci.com ; Instagram: @nancybyrneiannucci