Dead Air
The circus sounded louder, before it came to town.
The trumpeting pachyderm I was to ride, deafening.
But listening from the wings of the not-so-Bigtop,
The small town crowd made anxious sounds,
Then delighted gasps, to see me astride the tiny beast,
My red high tops dragging lightly through the sawdust.

Judging the beauty of little girls needs quiet.
Not the angry feed of mothers, charging backstage
To rescue little also-rans through the band room door.
Experienced masters of such ceremonies pretend
We do not hear their shame.

But the loudest sound is the tick, tick, tick
Of the song that ended while I was gone.
This room, this Studio, must never be silent.
Can they hear my panic as I bring the air
Back from the dead?