The Acrobat

The Circus gongs excite the Throngs in nighttime Never Land –
They swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
while Acrobats step pitapat above the shifting sands
and Lady Fat sits down to chat and oozes charm unplanned.

The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the Band,
ask crimson Clowns with frozen frowns, to hold a mutant hand,
while Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
lure Cats entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
  
White Elephants in big-top tents boast black-tusk contraband
to regiments of Sycophants who overflow the stands,
but No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
  
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonesome Crowd disbands,
down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their tattered rags in strands,
and Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.
   
To play a part in Three-Ring Art, I thought I’d try my hand – 
I mastered skills, I felt the thrills, I breathed and seethed firsthand –
But destiny denied to me to taste a lifetime spanned
with tightrope walks and trapeze chalks ... excepting second-hand...

For alcohol provoked a fall, as if a reprimand,
and now, a heap, I sometimes keep the ticket office manned...