A Night AT The Circus

A poem

Photo by Matt W Newman on Unsplash

Of course it’s still the same
except the rings are reduced to one,
the sequinned costumes dulled
and the ringmaster’s voice
belies her boredom.

I sigh and shift
on my primitive wooden seat
aching for a cushion,
a coffee, to be home and
comfortable instead of irked
by fruitless clowning and frenetic tumbling.

The child beside me chortles
at the recalcitrant rag doll
who refuses to be stood, sat straight
or stuffed in a box,
then reveals herself as
a limber young woman
and disappoints us all.

The tigers roar and snarl on cue,
wait for the trainer’s back to turn
and sidle around, searching for
their opportunity.
The fence is solid, allows for
planned departures only.
The leader, striped and regal,
performs a last hind-legged hop
and looks disgusted by the trick.