When the Big Top Came to Town

A poem about the circus that was our family

The circus came to town ours we were the circus

when we bought the house, the big tent there were eight kids that was enough

but then it wasn’t three more came the next year then later still more

because we weren’t thinking straight some kind of imbalance in the prefrontal cortex

caused our empathy train to run amok we couldn’t stop saying yes to social workers who asked

if there was room for one more or two until the circus was locked and loaded

the band played in the shed a leaky boat skittered down the driveway nailed to a skateboard with a sheet for a sail

popsicles from the basement freezer homework at the kitchen table dogs that roamed and riled

odd socks in baskets shoes in piles Lego pieces underfoot

two acres of trees and grass a rambling house with a view of the sea

the ducks ignored the pond but frogs croaked there loudly and we hatched preying mantids in the bathroom

sleds on snow days salty towels bowed the clothesline in sunshine bicycles multiplied like rabbits creeping across the lawn

the trees dropped apples wild blackberries brambled the bushes the house warm with cobblers and crisps, hot fruit bubbling

but one day the tiger escaped from the circus the elephant left the room and the train meandered down the tracks

the troop disbanded tent emptied over time and the neighbours were relieved

when the last monkey left the building and our circus left the town

“If you can’t ride two horses at once, you shouldn’t be in the circus.” — James Maxton