a quiet morning
the workers robotically
set up the tents
stringing the tightrope
attatching the trapezes
i sit uncertain
if i should paint
on another smile or
if today is for the
three piece suit of
the hungover ringmaster
passing the reflection
of the world’s fattest man
on the way through
the shadows between
freak show wagons
faded banners for
rickety old attractions
long past retirement
hoping to lure in
one last unlucky lady
for the greatest spectacle
of one man catastrophes
sweeping through town
before the grand finale
where it all burns down
leaving only scars across
the ever shifting horizon
as i work out the knots
from mental gymnastics
performed in empty lots
all across this land of
broken hearted dreamers
i mix plaster of paris
into the pancake makeup
so the smile never cracks