Every Friday night I walk myself to the circus.

A cracked glass door becomes a billowing tent flap

and the laughing faces are lit by the ends of burning cigarettes.

The sign outside proclaims it “The Pitcher’s Mound Pub”

but you know better than to believe all the names you hear.

 

A Lion Tamer sits at the bar,

restraining his own roaring rage with whips of whiskey.

Beside him sits an analytical acrobat

who is constantly cart wheeling over your academic achievements.

 

Clowns and creatures with painted on smiles

slowly circle a half filled pitcher of Rolling Rock

hoping to be picked up

by the high flying Trapeze Artists popping adderall from the rafters.

 

Each man juggles his reputation on the tip of a pool stick

 forlornly addressing the minstrel  by the men’s room

who is able to play a thousand noises save the sound of silence.

 

Each bartender becomes a fortune teller

predicting and producing destinies of one-night stands

 through heavy handed pouring of liquid luxury.

 

Magicians perch on barstools

drearily practicing the art of attraction

pulling one liners from trucker hats and basketball jerseys.

And every woman here could teach you how to walk in stilted stilettos 

but not one knows how to wear joy.

 

Because at the end of the night

When your empties and expectations hit the floor

You will see what loneliness really is.

When the laughter and actors disappear

And you drift home, forlornly alone

Because not enough smoke up strangers

spilling their Smirnoff found you suitably screwable tonight

Because your act wasn’t quite right.