Don't Blame the Clowns

Forget them. It wasn't the clowns
who tickled her fancy. It was
the trapeze artist. Muscular.
Young. Who wouldn't look up to him?

I think she lost her heart when the
circus came to town. And when it
packed its bags that poor soft girl was
nowhere to be seen. Dad's rage and

worry was understandable.
Her, half-dressed! underage! He feared
the trapeze artist had taken
my sister, his daughter, to heights

her mother had only dreamed of.
It later transpired that the
high wire heartthrob was himself
nothing but a kid in matters

of the heart. And, as it turned out,
was more of a guy's guy than a
ladies man, as he told my Dad
in no uncertain manner. Hmpf.

And my sister? She was round at
her best friend's. Sobbing. Heartbroken.
She'd come a cropper. Hit the ground.
But she had a safety net. Us.

(My sister might tell a different story)

High Hopes

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