Circus

The circus comes to town, and once again the sky is purple with unhappiness. That's because it's an abused god, bruises from the stars, its spouse. The moon knows all about this problem. It's sometimes eclipsed and pretends not to notice the shredding of the night. Meanwhile, elephants toot their kazoos, unusual for this time of year, Winter, and the tigers whip the master of ceremonies with his own head. Popcorn sellers are about to go out of business, because of too much inventory, and the zebras eat themselves in the forms of crackers. The sky wants to shield them all from the audience, but it can't even save itself from pinpoints of energy that apologize each time they send a meteor swarm though its clouds. Summoning its roar, the crowd inflates the pink tent with all the hot air it needs. A cage of clowns rams into a train, stopping the load of people and coal, and they all drop out into various poses of death. Tickets are sold by inflatable chimpanzees, who swear they've torn them when they really haven't. They don't cost enough to dissuade everyone who can from coming, even the elderly and infirm. A loudspeaker prepares the announce the first act. It'd be excited, but it's a machine, and it can't see the colorful riot of legs and arms about to stampede the chairs. Tightrope walkers are drunk. The sky hears fireworks and knows once again it's going to get hurt. Police officers, shaking their heads, are ready to shovel the dead in their wagons.