Early
morning the grass was matted and gauzy
with
spiders' silk barely seen in the low-
angled
sunlight: ten minutes only
did all
that fantastic industry show
in the
field where we still pitch circus
tents
in July. Delight camps out,
sells
us snacks, souvenirs and three tries
for
four dollars on our way to the tent
and
popcorn and noise and this is the show we came for.
Look at them pretend to fall! So
many
clowns in such a little car!
Tonight
for an hour and a half we watch and ahh.
The
vastly ordered outside world is ignored.
More
stars than we know for farther
than we
can ever fit into our head
above
us while we follow the ringmaster's patter.
After,
we jabber back to the cars we parked
over
the ruined acre of spiderweb. Still
under
stars we cannot see for the head-
lights'
glare. The world's own marvels
ignore
us, too. Now in the dark
stars
and spiders spin. We drive
home in
our machines amid their work,
chatting
on phones. We attend to ourselves,
and why
not? Who cares if we laugh
at our
own jokes? Applaud some kid
in
tights and bells who just juggled five
balls
in each hand (or nearly did)?
We are the only ones laughing anyway,
or trying to be funny, and sometimes we're pretty good.
We want a smaller, warmer joy.
The night sky is huge and very cold.
Tonight, a joy like us: little
monkeys laughing, foolish, the world's fools,
the ones in big shoes and baggy pants,
the stars of the show, grinning, with pie on our face.
