The circus

When the circus is in town
I want to invite you
to go with me.
What started out as a joke
could become a way to woo you.
To win you.
When the clowns come out
of their tiny little car
and run around the ring
with a bucket.
They soak the ringmaster,
grab another bucket,
and run toward us.
We yell and duck
as shiny silver bits of confetti
cover us.
We laugh and I brush the tiny sparkles
from your face
and kiss you
without ever realizing
we are on the Jumbotron
and 30,000 people
have witnessed our first kiss.
You laugh and lean behind me,
avoiding the cameras.
I wave and smile.
We settle back in our seats
as the flying acrobats
dance across the air above us.
You hold your hand up,
watching the flips and twists
through a crack in your fingers.
I laugh and pull your hand down,
holding it in mine
until the aerial choreography closes.
And then four motorcycles
race around the ring
and meet at the entrance
of a huge metal globe.
They enter one after another
and race around the sides,
moving higher and higher
up the sides of the globe
until they are looping the structure
with perfect timing,
never touching,
but so uncomfortably close.
You pull your hand back
and cover your face again.
I smile and chide you,
but sweetly, poking you
every now and then
to get a laugh.
When the motorcycles leave,
the cage is rolled away
and the ring is empty.
We watch as a parade of horses,
elephants, and clowns
close the show.
We get back to my Jeep
and I walk around to open your door.
You lean in and give me a quick kiss.
Thank you, you say as you close the door.
We laugh and talk about our
favorite parts of the circus
as I drive you back to your car.