The Circus

After the circus was gone,

we were left with an empty lot littered

with cotton candy cones and popcorn

boxes, crackers jacks, and posters

torn from poles and pasted by the wind

against the fence at the far corner of the field.

The grass is trampled down and muddied by three days

of footfalls traversing the Midway toward the Big Top,

small groups congregating around the barkers

luring us in with slim chances to win or to prove

our strength and skill, games of chance or fancy,

or enticed by the smell of carney food,

greasy fries and a hotdog laden down

with fried onions and mustard, visible clearly

in the stains down our chins and shirts.

And the Big Top, pole-held, three ringed, beckoned

us further into the circus world professed

by the posters as “daring sights and feats of acrobatics

to amaze and amuse,” funneling us in through peanuts,

popcorn, and candy apples thrust out and taken

for a small fee, circus fare on this Sunday afternoon.

Inside, our ringside seats secured, the circus music

assailed us, loud and shrill, brassy and fast,

climbing the scales and trills higher than the tent

top above us, up above the trapeze and the tight rope

that drew our gaze upward, awaiting feats proclaimed

“death defying.” Then a whistle sounded, a shiny whistle

poised between the lips of the Ringmaster, piercing

the air into silence, to direct our attention to here

and there, to now, three rings of clowns cavorting

and prancing horses, dancing dogs, and the elephants,

four elephants on command standing on two legs,

or following the leader, trunks grasping tails,

or front feet up on an elephant rump, so large and awkward

in this ballet of elephant dance, pirouettes and turns;

to the center ring where a cage had emerged unseen

and on cue, eight, count ‘em, eight, tigers

and a lion, sleek and snarling, fierce, and we gasped,

grasped each other, except the brave ones, roaring back,

hiding their own fears, afraid like us, afraid to show it.

With a snap of his whip, the lion tamer enters the ring,

this brave man with his lovely assistant aglitter

in pink sequins, sparkling, a distraction perhaps,

as he put them through their leaps, fiery hoops,

and rolls, his head stuck in a tiger’s mouth and sending

them off with a snap, again, a sharp crack of his whip.

Then a spot light circled the circus tent in darkness, swirling

upward as a snare drum rolled from somewhere, concealed,

and with a cymbal’s crash, a trapeze artist leapt out,

caught in the light’s bright hold, a-dazzle, dazzling us.

She lets go the bar, somersaults in midair with no net

to catch her, but from the dark appear outstretched

arms to reach hers reaching back, safely conveying her

to the other side of the tent, another bar awaiting

to carry her home, a tuck and a roll and a grasp of the bar

to the delight – and perhaps relief – of the crowd,

cheering from the bleachers below.

                                                               And at the end of day,

safely tucked in bed ourselves, sated by peanuts,

popcorn, and greasy fries, we dreamt of the circus

and a life we could have as roustabouts and barkers,

trapeze artists high above the crowd, or perhaps our own

glittering suit as the Ringmaster, a shiny whistle

poised between our lips, piercing the air into silence.

But in the morning, the circus is gone, and we are left

with an empty lot littered with cotton candy cones and popcorn

boxes, posters pasted by the wind against the fence

at the far corner, where once there was a tent

big enough to fuel a young boy’s dreams,

dreams of a life he lived for this one afternoon,

a Sunday afternoon when the circus came to town.