I knew two guys who ran off to join the circus.
They were brothers who lived in my neighborhood.
We didn’t have much in common, but they were good 
with their hands and could climb ropes. 
They didn’t really run off, I guess. 
Their parents actually thought it was a good idea. 
They were hanging around, building stuff out of plywood, 
tossing ropes over the garage, waiting for something to happen.
Go to school their father said, or join the army.
I heard they learned to tumble and care for elephants. 
When they came back, one had a Ph,D. in math 
and his brother had become a vet. They looked older 
and dressed like British gentlemen from 1965. 
I admired their slim builds, their jaunty hats, 
which they told me were made of the finest felt. 
Since I was an English major, I decided to write 
a poem about them, but when I got four lines in, 
the poem ran off and joined the circus. 
It rode in a little clown car. 
It put its head in the lion’s mouth. 
One day when the strongman was sick, 
it lifted a barbell that weighed five hundred pounds. 
It sent me postcards from Vienna and Rome, but after awhile 
we lost touch. I heard it started drinking in the low countries 
and could no longer work on the trapeze. 
I’m afraid it started hanging out with haiku.
Someone told me it got into a fistfight with a villanelle 
over a metaphor in a Pindaric Ode, but I never believed that. 
My poem was wild but gentle.
When the prodigal returns, I’ll find a place for it in my memoirs.