The circus opens at noon.
We arrive at half past midnight.
The sign on the ticket box reads,
“Please come back an hour earlier
without a smile on your face.”

We bring our own freak show:
Fat lady, two-faced man,
and the prodigal son.
Skeletons dance for the passers-by.

“Don’t drink the water,”
the ghost in the boy suit warns.
“Don’t worry,” says we.
“We brought our own. Lemonade?”

We wait in line for teacups,
an hour, twenty minutes.
“Prospero would love this ride,
if he ever made it home.”

Lions roar in cages.
Canaries sing in caves.
Clown cars come and go,
as the ferris wheel goes round.

“Who are your bedfellows?”
the bearded gypsy asks.
I give her a shiny new quarter,
because I know want to know.

Our trio becomes a quartet
when the devil saunters in.
Dressed in red horns and tails,
he’s a sight for our aging eyes.

“Save me,” cries the princess.
Everyone laughs at the joke.
The clock strikes 13.
The caliope drones.

We all applaud.

The ringmaster smiles,
as the silence screams,
“Come one, come all,
The show must go on.”

Posted/Updated on April 28th, 2019

A poem from a dream. Or perhaps a dream from a poem.

I was in a dream and read a poem. I could only remember a couple of lines when I awoke, so I decided to build something around them. An exercise in whimsy and in sanity.