Part 2 — Miss Fay the Trapezist

RED ostrich feathers in her hair, She balances while people stare At her pink tights through fœtid waves Of pulsing awe; they are her slaves. They are her slaves; she smiles and they Are near-bewitched to see her sway Along the slender wire trapeze Into the card-board painted trees. The sugared music stops, she stands Upon her plump and milk-white hands. Bird-like she rises, blows a kiss To the spectators, moist with bliss. The brass band plays a tepid valse Of sickly syrup-sounds, the false Pearls of a dowager keep time. They too were pretty in their prime. Then the spectators clap, they burst Applause until a molten thirst Tugs at their dewlaps, when Miss Fay Flutters a curtsey to the day.