Not My Monkeys

A poem

Photo by Jannes Van den wouwer on Unsplash

roll up, roll up with your pots and your pans
and fall into step with the marching band
in the Big Top the crowds are filling the aisles
where the apothecary peddles his liniment vials

the dwarves with their sticks are poking the bear
in the shadows the mystic is combing her hair
the ringmaster strides over blood-soaked sawdust
and the audience sways between disgust and lust

and the man in the clown suit is everywhere
releasing balloon animals into the air
but the circus will run out of bread one day
and the rapturous applause will echo away

More poetry by Alex Kilcannon

Astronaut’s Soliloquy