Father's Day

The lights are bright and hotter than my face;
My makeup is cracked and starting to peel;
The red rubber noses and wigs badly chafe;
And these size thirty-sixes bite at my heel.
No more will I shovel elephant dung
Or merrily dust out the lions’ barred cages
Or attend the acrobats’ highest rung
Or suffer the sword-thrower’s silver rages.
I dream of an office, a suit and tie,
An apartment with exorbitant rent;
A world fenced in by a boundless blue sky,
Not the striped roof of your precious big tent.
I’ve lived in your world, dad, its quirks, its charm.
I’d much rather be an accountant like mom.