Done

I do believe I’m done, milady. Done
And done, without a qualm, a second thought
For all that, when I might have hurt someone
Because of your commands. What I was taught
Is that your comfort was my truest worth,
Your safety and your pleasure my heart’s light,
And since the pointless day of my own birth
It is your battles only that I fight.
But something more than that has been demanded:
True love, which has its own rewards, and cost.
So I leave you this way, not empty-handed —
Your name is on my lips, and never lost,
But now I cannot stay. When I was tasked
With loving you, I did as I was asked.

Again, the Great Migration of the Clowns

Again, the Great Migration of the Clowns:
The loons, the doctors of philosophy,
The fakirs and the fakers, endlessly
Debating the debates, the ups and downs
Of policy, and whether evening gowns
Should be required or — on fire — towed to sea,
Accountants, engineers come, rolling free,
And other entertainers, with their crowns.

These are the Titans, Lords of running jokes,
Big feet, and runny noses, ravishing
And humid. Love, like fear, is on the wing,
Directionless. Although one red wig smokes,
All’s well: the flooring creaks, the singer croaks,
The wolves hum, and our guides go wandering.

The Migration of the Clowns

The Great Migration of the Clowns begins:
Parades with trapeze artists, acrobats,
Black bears whipped into rows, men in tall hats,
Trick riders, elephants with wrinkled skins,
Mean roustabouts, women with evil grins,
Despairing monkeys staring through thin slats,
Slack rope and tightrope walkers, feral cats
Repenting nothing, marching for our sins.

But most of all the clowns resplendent, bright
With memories of climbing up the rope
Towards a grey and empty sky, all hope
Gone, only judgment left, unending night,
The trail they followed now ashes and blight.
She asks for grace. No soap, he says, no soap.