Howie Good

Red Circus

They were there when I got there
and still there when I left,
wearily wheeling my ash barrel
and long-handled broom
into unfamiliar precincts of dawn.
Oh, how they oohed at you,
the bareback rider in the poster,
expostulated on your red match-head of hair,
your faded and peeling pink costume
encrusted with Fourth of July sparklers,
your white horse whirling round the ring
like a storm of paperweight snow,
and after the side street summoned me
by the name flowing in loops
of soiled thread above my heart,
they stayed on, as though they heard
the ringmaster cracking his whip
for attention inside the tent of fire,
his rusty old coat and wrinkled boots,
the decay of his manners reminding them
of something, just not sure what.