TRAVELLING CIRCUS

the scars

along the bends of his knees were

shining bands of

white.

left by some self-proclaimed

"trainer"

who had used a

wooden rod

to beat back

generations of

instinct.

reaching out to touch him,

i almost

hoped that he

would send me

sprawling

with his massive

trunk.

anything to prove

that he was still

untamed and

variable.

but he merely

lowered

his head.

allowing me to feel

the bristle

of hair up top.

a terrible vacancy

in his eyes,

surrounded by

striations

of neon stage paint.

and i thought

of my

father.

trudging from the house

each morning

in suit and tie

with briefcase clasped,

prepared to smile

as a

boss

critiqued his

work.

by Josh Palmer