She runs a circus now
Her will drives them round the world –
a cavalcade of needy clowns,
prima donna gymnasts, tigers.
Even in mufti, you can sense the whip
back on its hook by her basking boots.
They keep changing the legislation,
so she runs shows on private wastegrounds.
Then pads away across the border.
Sometimes it feels like leading a narrowing loop
round the world’s least-civilised regions.
There is only her to ninety performers.
She knows the mainstays – the hailstone generations
of acrobats, the elephants’ lugubrious gentleman.
But she can’t keep up with the temps and chancers.
There is always something to be roped or dismantled.
She has two lists of rules in her head –
one she enforces daily
and the drop-dead ice-cold essentials:
No one forced into prostitution.
Petty crime kept to a minimum.
She sits in her van on her own
as the site settles down – the knife-thrower’s kit
shivering like fishes in its sleep,
the big cats sighing, the youngsters
fucking the local talent.
She always responds to a knock.
I can hardly believe it’s been twenty years.
She can never die.