To Fire a Clown

The sun is hot and low in the sky
like a spotlight or peephole in the circus tent.

The ringmaster tinkered with the earth’s
orbit to attract people through the front gate.

Spontaneous wells have dried. Tigers combust.
Skulls of ushers have horseflies for eyes.

A barker attempts to shout but can only cough,
hack. Caged turkey vultures cackle and laugh.

The report of a daredevil’s cannon is as silent
as a monkey tree’s faint in a deserted forest.

An elephant sheds its skin on a high-wire
and falls off into an oasis mirage. Trapeze

artists shrivel in the hammock of a safety net.
The Buffalo Bill impersonator sidesaddles a cactus.

The Chippewas have consulted their Sun God
and will not chant and dance to bring rain clouds.

The bearded lady dreams of a waterfall’s roar,
of the squeal of children allowed to bathe

in a smattering of raindrops pocked in the dust,
and of the eternal sucking of air from the straws

of lovers drinking from the same empty glass.
Clouds of cotton candy float past like tumbleweeds.

The moon is a visible stainless steel canteen
and all stars are giant pulsing sponges of light.

A rubber nose and giant tear are my trademarks
but now sweat streaks my mascara and whiteface.

The sweet nonsense of my patented somersault and flop
used to depend upon the darkness of the big-top.