CIRCUS TRAIN WRECK
This isn’t going to work.
I’d rather be a monkey’s wife
than one of yours. Take your pitchfork
and shove it, along with your beliefs
in the rapid properties of sunless tans
and five minute tosses in the hay. This life
used to be fun—you with your muscle-man
act and your tight, sequined pants. I was a fool
to forgive you when you screamed out, “Marianne,”
rubbing your burly chest in almond oil
and taking you in again.
I let you believe you were the jewel
that people came to see, a hurricane
swelling on a purple bucket.
But you could never entertain
like the trapeze artists, their arms locked,
teeth shining in Barnum & Bailey’s “Greatest Show
on Earth,” so I’m moving to Nantucket
where Prunus dulcis grows rampant now,
with Brad, the handsome circus clerk
who likes how I do things adagio.