Control Freak
Standing in the center ring, snapping his whip of protest,
he grins at her giving-in,
Mesmerized as she gallops round and round
Doing just as he says.
In comfort now he sleeps,
She is finally broken, finally tamed.
Then dreaming, he wonders at the song, where it has gone,
Her calliope slowly rusting,
Out of tune, a key missing here and there.
He awakes, sweating, running to her pen,
She is there, resting; relieved he walks away,
Once again she stares into sunlight, the tent's open flap.
ampoule, November TwentySeventh, TwoThousandTen


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