Your sister told me you joined the circus.
Posted: Mon Feb 12, 2007 1:20 am
Your sister told me you joined the circus.
I thought she was being metaphoric.
Should I picture you flying through the air
in a death-defying stunt to the amazement
of children, adults, freaks and geeks?
Or are you just selling popcorn?
How many times have you left me?
You experimented with the correlation
of shoe styles and cliques. They still sell shoes
like those today, though the price
has descended from its royal position.
Do you remember the little people
in the forest behind my house?
They’d built a shelter and we built a fire,
cooked hot dogs, sang songs
of love and betrayal; we bellowed
declarations of devotion to each other.
Do you remember how we played Indians?
I don’t remember our Indian names.
In the morning my mother cried
and hugged us both, “lost,” she’d said.
And then your father sent you
to boarding school. You showed me
the brochures, you begged, “Come with me.”
But my mother wanted me near.
Have you known comfort, friend?
I saw you once more.
You washed the grease from your chicken
and cried because you were really trying
to take better care of yourself. You screamed
when I followed you into the bathroom,
as I had a thousand times before. If I knew
which circus, and where, would I follow?
No.
The show is the basest of entertainment,
and admission costs a chunk of heart.
I thought she was being metaphoric.
Should I picture you flying through the air
in a death-defying stunt to the amazement
of children, adults, freaks and geeks?
Or are you just selling popcorn?
How many times have you left me?
You experimented with the correlation
of shoe styles and cliques. They still sell shoes
like those today, though the price
has descended from its royal position.
Do you remember the little people
in the forest behind my house?
They’d built a shelter and we built a fire,
cooked hot dogs, sang songs
of love and betrayal; we bellowed
declarations of devotion to each other.
Do you remember how we played Indians?
I don’t remember our Indian names.
In the morning my mother cried
and hugged us both, “lost,” she’d said.
And then your father sent you
to boarding school. You showed me
the brochures, you begged, “Come with me.”
But my mother wanted me near.
Have you known comfort, friend?
I saw you once more.
You washed the grease from your chicken
and cried because you were really trying
to take better care of yourself. You screamed
when I followed you into the bathroom,
as I had a thousand times before. If I knew
which circus, and where, would I follow?
No.
The show is the basest of entertainment,
and admission costs a chunk of heart.