The air is thick with evening mist and the ephemera
of the thing.

Outside a marquee,
clad in brazen outfits and flashy smiles on faces caked with makeup.
Shameless showmanship and loud desperation,
all in a tangle of
paraphernalia.

Quickly they tire of the farce,
for they know we know they do not belong.
And their skin is mottled the yellow and grey of old pictures
for the years have not been kind,
just as we
have not been kind.

And they feel the whips and bars and laughter in our minds and know that they are
nothing more than dancing bears
and their pain-
the impotent roar of a tiger in chains.