Sawdust rings (Read by Northen_Soul)

I wanted the real photograph
not the straw bales
and candy apple faces.
 
The circus tents veil of glamour
soon returns to canvas and rope
as sticky children skip away,
trailing laughter.
 
I walk small amongst the closing down,
and creep my shadow on bill board walls
side tents glow behind busy glances.
The thin slit of a caravan door whispers
of a world not seen before.
 
She sits straight on a high back chair
smearing lines across her face,
high above the audience she climbs
each night with dusted hands
and plans a ballerina's fake escape.
The old trailer talks her down,
as the low lights dim and surge
she wanted to be heard.
 
Is this the picture you would take from me?
The shot glass reality of aching muscle
and crippled hands, a life that seeps
on traveled cracks between
your towns and fields
each poster pasted
over stolen miles and years.
 
Olga, you should at least know my name.
 
I didn't answer, I stayed a coward
as my camera stole everything she had left.