EMPIRE CIRCUS (part three)

 At the far end of the tent, in a room-sized spherical cage,

two cyclists gun their motors and crisscrossing paths,

rise, sink, and defying gravity, loop and circle

You can smell the gasoline and the stink of their sweat mingle

with the stench wafting into the tent, one part river,

two parts day old piss


The midget leans back on a stool

It’s his turn now and everyone knows it

As he begins to play a flute,

the master of ceremonies approaches from behind

The chair pulled out from under him,

the midget jumps up, swaggers

and Bruce Lee like crouches and kicks the air,

swearing each time he’s pushed

Each time his flute, his piccolo and his whistles are taken,

he pulls out another, whistles again

He has an endless supply. When all else fails

he bends over, farts

and flees his adversary, who flustered

does not see the indomitable midget thrust a horn

between his own tall legs

toot Toot!



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