“won’t you come home,
bill bailey?”

eyes shuttered, I tumble in.
awkward like the high-painted
clowns in bill bailey’s traveling
circus. their antics sprung for
laughs, mine real. garrulous,
feet squeezed into ill-fitting
red pumps, I teeter on the
high wire just missing disaster,
saved, "--no applause, please,"
by the fall.

pink cotton-candy buttons
melt from your tongue. they
whistle a sweet lull-song
tempting me to tell the whole
truth, nothing but the truth,
so help me God.

but, no barking "true life
story," wrapped in rainbow
colors headline this big top
show. only silence and a
lip-glossed smile.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007