in this sensible place
the elephants are all dead and the ringmaster is still on trial
the twirlers, the dancers are locked down on their bare backs headhair to toenail.
the rope swingers, the cannon fodders, the ball jugglers and wheel cyclists are all laid off or shipped to Mexico or New Mexico or Mexico City
the spectators, the bag of roasted peanut shells are swept up inside a vacuum cleaner for proper recycling
the whip snaps and bull cracks and dust clouds and fat crowds disappear like sad laughter
the clowns are still in town, though convening a convention of conscience
leftover the puke and the vomit and the blood and the bile and the piss and the cum and the tears and the phlegm and the shit, of course, make up for it all.
the only one left is me and the rest of the animals are set free to enjoy the show.