The Boy in the Stands
loves the circus so rife with color
it’s as if he and his naughtiest friends,
armed with jars of finger paint,
were turned loose under the big top,
no holds barred; where gaudiness is religion
and his hated, fastidious sisters,
Misses Prim and Proper, gag from wafts
of sequined elephant dung; where the bosoms
of plumed ladies, stuffed like putty
into their tights, jiggle right before his eyes
for hours on end of slurping sans a straw
or stinging slap; this hallowed place
where his heroes swallow swords
and gorge pure fire; where Danger,
his dark, forbidden friend,
lurks nastily at every turn.
Larry D. Thomas
Posted over on Right Hand Pointing
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