Bring your binoculars so you can see
the balance beam act I routinely perform.
Granted, you'll have to squint until your eyes bleed.
Somewhere along the line three rings became four,
then five, then a hundred. But if you can bring yourself
to peer past the broad in the bespangled tutu
and the dude whose tights are. . .oh, my. . .,
what was I saying? Oh yes. You may get a glimpse
of my ungainly but somewhat gamely form.
Ok, I donít have the best costume. For a clown,
I am singularly without dots. Monkey's cuter,
and that high-wire hulk has pecs and abs
make mine look like overcooked macaroni.
Ringmaster got the best jokes, what can I say?
Though as for the animal act, how hard can it be
to stand on a drum staring up at the crotch
of an elephant-training trainee? But okay,
all right, you got it. What you see is what you see.
Still say it takes cajones almost as big
as the orangutan's kid [not that I looked]
to go out in front of everyone and be me.
(c) Phyllis Jean Green, March 2004