Plastic shards burst from
tightropes
high above our eyes
Clanging trumpets played in the pit
by three dead children.
The conductor tries to lead an escape, but trips on dry ice.

Not everyone is trying to escape.
We paid for a show.

No one notices the smoke at first,
til it shapes itself a dragon
It gulps a wigged lady, in the circle,
and lands to finish the meal.
The strings lead the orchestra, making the tigers cry and carry on.

But death is a frequent guest at our parties,
so we're not phased.

A bunch of clowns handle a fire hose,
a pretend baby in a building
And the dragon performs a gust of fire
that they can put out.
The performers are as surprised as any and some have hidden.

But perhaps the brave, or the drunk,
still make the show go on.

No one is stupid or heartless enough
to attack the dragon, but
The small winged demons are fair game,
and have a taste for eyeballs.
We stab one with an umbrella and club one with a bag of canned stuff.

Better to be prepared, we thought,
and were proven right again.