Joanie at the Museum Circus

She is now the one to perform.

Curators, careful as clowns,
hesitate to mess up
vintage wear, horns discarded
to breathe rust, long shoes left on
stiff, crossed legs.

Her firebreather manager
poorly announces
her unlit wares.

Tsk-tsk’s over perceived
ruinings.  An outfit out on display!
Fishnet stockings, thighs freshly caught,
chest more sequin then sleeve or sheath.

She steps onto the line, aches her way
into the next room, shadow caressing
ancient earthware.
Clowns trip in vain,
attempt to shield certained fall.

She reaches the second floor
railway. Friends cheer, guard the rope,
bosses encourage her to strip.

by Chad Parenteau

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