Trapeze

The trapeze girl
learns to type.

She's sick of sequins -
they dig into her thighs
and leave ghost fish scales

The trapeze girl
feeds her make-up
to the epilepsy bin

She leaves her false eyelashes
to line the window sill
like dead flies

In the dark of night
she pushes open her caravan door
and runs away to join
the work force.

In the city,
she dreams she's falling.

In the city,
she dreams a lion licks her face.

At happy hour,
she   lets her boss touch
the callouses behind her knees