Smoke-clouds
billow and
I’m
left to remember when,
back
as a boy, how
magical
it would feel, standing
there,
popcorn in hand, amongst
likeminded
awestruck souls,
watching,
without a blink
of
blurred focus, as the
death
defying men and
women,
dressed in sequins and silk,
dance
the strings, jump the
ledge,
trust the swinging
friend,
hanging there
on
loops, way up the
tented
sky—and there were
horses,
lions, and people
who
look similar to how I’ve
felt
inside.
There
was so many more,
so
many enchanting times, every
year,
we’d go, as a family
to
the greatest show—and
now,
adulthood has slapped
me—the
circus has since
left
town, a while now, yet
it
chose today to smoke today
it
picked now, to ascend away—
and
I remember how smiles
brought
smiles and laughter caused
laughter—filling
the gaps between
the
gasps procured by fire eaters,
feats
of strength and cannons—I remember
how
it was then—but I also remember
how
the clowns, painted as they were,
always
made me feel a little bit sad
inside.
