The Circus that Never Leaves Town
by Maurice Miller
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She rat-tat-tats
the day's instructions
to the nodding maid
at a pace beyond
human capacity
to absorb;
there is after all
an appointment
with the knife-thrower
to be kept.
Tell my Husband
I shall be late home
from the Flower Show
Beneath imploring chandeliers
and stucco excess
the harlequin is moonlighting
on his afternoon off.
Face scrubbed until
it is as blanched as his make-up,
in a look-away banker's suit,
he performs the rituals
of afternoon tea
with the exaggerated motions
of a mime artist;
it's a lime-flavoured
infusion with Brazilian biscuits,
her favourite combination.
In the boudoir,
Brighton Rock curtains
vie with canvasses of
lipstick-coloured caravans.
She stands upright and naked
as the stilettos
tumble through the
nothingness of air
then shiver and
swoon in the masonry.
One day you'll miss
she giggles and
extricates herself
from her jagged cordon,
like a snake
casting off
its outer skin.
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