The town had all been gathered
By the drums of the parade,
To cheer the clown’s batoning,
Monkeys marching in charade,
A troupe of donkeys braying at
Ten leathered trunks a’swaying,
While on seven hobbling horses
Danced a nimble boardroom maid.

Coiffed tigers whining, sniping,
From within their pixeled cage,
A talking head on soapbox red
Preached equaling the wage.
On stilts the ringling master
Promised imminent disaster
Might await a tightrope walker
High above the center stage.

The big tent had been readied
And they lined up every one,
To pay their hours and heartbeats
For the thrill of passive fun.
At dawn the cotton candy sticks,
Confetti stuck to dirty bricks
Is all that’s left but to forget
The good still left undone.


Copyright 2015, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.

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