Circuses

Snowy tents,
red rusty guy wires,
billowing bellies
of brown tents
staked to the ground.

Waterboy Jones
under the filtered sunlight,
green as a grape,
smart as a whip,
slips his penis
into Joan, the stable girl,
slaps pony with hand;
it runs away.

A couple of quick pokes,
pushing her against a pole.

Alone Joan,
alone on the grass,
walks with Jones.

Sun,
press him,
press her together,
just for a while.

Late afternoon,
pumpkin yellow, the sun
colors the landscape;

hand in hand
Joan-Jones walk homeward,
surfeited, but unfed,
muttering away the somehow
sadness of sexual congress,
the disappointment at the end.

In all ways, in all fields,
on all planes, climes,
times, tides,
whatever the place
and circumstance,

the circus, their circus,
is done.

Jack D Harvey has had poetry appear in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and a number of other online and print poetry magazines. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies.

Jack has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, NY. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired.