Those few intimate moments
were just a distraction to you,
a sideshow and I the clown,
or rather a clown, third or fourth
out of the little car, a filler of space
that couldn’t be there, amusing only
because it was impossible I be there.
In that brief spotlit possible moment,
between the tiny car and the curtain,
I lived a small bright life beneath my paint,
ran the ring and the fiery hoop, twirled,
somersaulted, capered, squeezed my horn,
then disappeared from view.