The worst part of all the fuss
is never knowing when the circus comes to play.
The whirling carousel vertigo and warped fun-mirror migraines
post no schedule and schedule no warning
and leave no room for proper function in the ring,
despite the ever-increasing demand for perfect attention.
If I faint before the audience, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
(Hour 19)
I am looking for words that would put the entire poem into one critical perspective, but I haven’t found the words yet. But all of the lines had something for me. Great poem!