Junkyard Circus

It begins with a silence

beneath the tinted sky

where only a word 

or two tumble out 

a slot in the door

and risk being lost in the wind.

Deadbeats wander 

and pick through 

immature mountains of debris,

old books and warped jeans piled on top of

burnt pages of journals and graves for dogs.

The train makes its hundredth stop 

at the maze of mirrors, 

on a charted course going nowhere fast,

so fast that the passengers are put to sleep

and the conductor doesn’t notice

the tapping on the glass 

above

and around— 

The clowns cue the music,

laughing through tear-shaped painted eyes.

The tapping forms clouds that start to rain,

and the band gets louder and lights dart faster and

fog consumes the faces, the train, the junk, the sky.

But nothing to fear inside colourful tents and sugar boats— 

Poets and acrobats perform 

their greatest, 

most wildest,

totally improvised 

gravity-defying 

masochism tango

against yellows and reds 

of their grand stage,

flying so high they almost catch the scent of rain

but plummet back down,

followed by pink parades of pachyderms,

mice and technicolour drums,

piano keys and trumpet bands

blasting till their lungs give out

while monkeys swing from end to end,

no balance beams or high theatrics,

just chaos, noise, and high showmen, 

shouting with their laughing gas,

it’s almost gone! 

come while you can!

the kids in the back laugh hysterically 

like it’s the funniest damn show they’ve ever seen

(and it is), and place bets on when the storm 

pounding and pooling on the roof

will finally— 

Crash

the party

with thunder, then silence, then rain.

Leaving only a child who sits and stares

at the junkyard circus black box funhouse

and a hole in the sky with a patch tacked on.