In the Heyday of the Circus

tigers ripped apart

their rations of raw meat

before it grew icicles,

stallions kicked at their stalls

wired by the moon

not to gallop in circles,

elephant dung froze

rolled off the dustpans

like giant hailstones,

the circus compound

is now a makeshift enclosure

of petting animals

squeezed by sticky-handed

toddlers, scuffing their shoes

in the sawdust

while a rusty roundabout

lurches forward for a deutschmark

and a visitors’ book for Irene

is signed by well-wishers

or by those who wished

they had wished her well.