Circus Smirkus

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.