Of course it’s a nondenominational outfit.
A bunch of trailers parked by Chevy Suburbans.
And I don’t know the names of the animals
or one act from another, nevertheless
they’ll let you walk among them if you watch
and don’t trip over a colossus doing calisthenics.
Don’t stare at the fire-eater’s ass in spandex.
Mornings, they fall out like an army between battles.
A few build cook fires in circles that have seen their share
of junk-mail-as-kindling, Papa John’s pizza coupons messaging
in flickers of combustion, white-winged butterflies flitting
through several heavens of smoke in branches overhead.
If those between jobs are beautiful, these are beautiful.
If dressing in rags is a niche sport, they’re athletes.
Rescue dogs nap in pairs on heaped canvasing.
Graveyard cats come and go like light on stones.
Of course the man in charge is a woman. Tells
stories. Lets you in on the workings of a circus
before smiling and waving and volunteering you
for chores that purchase temporary membership.