Ringside Seat
Gabcast! Dancing With Daisy #50 - Ringside Seat
Click the play button above to listen to me read this poem.
Ringside Seat
From his desk
where he worked,
he had a free ticket
and a ringside seat
to the daily window circus
that performed
in the bird feeder outside.
With great delight,
he watched the birds
who, like trapeze artists
in bright flashy clothes,
flew gracefully
from the tree in the yard,
swooping through the air,
alighting gently
on the perch of the feeder.
At first he scowled
when the squirrels arrived.
Like clowns
wearing gray fur suits
with white underbellies,
they climbed and jumped
and bumbled about,
twitching their tails,
stealing seed
from his birds
and each other.
He chased them away
when he could.
He rigged the feeder
trying to block their path,
but like clowns,
they were smarter
than they looked.
Funny, furry acrobats
with whiskers
and shiny beady eyes,
they flipped and flew.
They scampered on wires,
sliding here,
pulling themselves there,
clinging, climbing
and arriving
back in the tray
to dine again.
In spite of himself,
they made him smile.
He was glad
when they returned each day.
He bought peanuts
in the shell,
filled half the tray
trying to encourage them
to come and stay.
What's a circus
without peanuts
after all,
he thought,
and
there must be
a clown or two.
The blue jay served
as master of ceremonies,
the ringmaster
with his tall top hat,
blue tails behind.
He called out loudly
each act that arrived,
strutting and cawing,
flourishing his feathers,
a showman
through and through.
Pretending
it was popcorn and a sno cone,
the man ate
salty crackers
and drank a diet cola.
He sat
in his ringside seat
and smiled
as the circus performers
played to their audience
of one.
Click the play button above to listen to me read this poem.
Ringside Seat
From his desk
where he worked,
he had a free ticket
and a ringside seat
to the daily window circus
that performed
in the bird feeder outside.
With great delight,
he watched the birds
who, like trapeze artists
in bright flashy clothes,
flew gracefully
from the tree in the yard,
swooping through the air,
alighting gently
on the perch of the feeder.
At first he scowled
when the squirrels arrived.
Like clowns
wearing gray fur suits
with white underbellies,
they climbed and jumped
and bumbled about,
twitching their tails,
stealing seed
from his birds
and each other.
He chased them away
when he could.
He rigged the feeder
trying to block their path,
but like clowns,
they were smarter
than they looked.
Funny, furry acrobats
with whiskers
and shiny beady eyes,
they flipped and flew.
They scampered on wires,
sliding here,
pulling themselves there,
clinging, climbing
and arriving
back in the tray
to dine again.
In spite of himself,
they made him smile.
He was glad
when they returned each day.
He bought peanuts
in the shell,
filled half the tray
trying to encourage them
to come and stay.
What's a circus
without peanuts
after all,
he thought,
and
there must be
a clown or two.
The blue jay served
as master of ceremonies,
the ringmaster
with his tall top hat,
blue tails behind.
He called out loudly
each act that arrived,
strutting and cawing,
flourishing his feathers,
a showman
through and through.
Pretending
it was popcorn and a sno cone,
the man ate
salty crackers
and drank a diet cola.
He sat
in his ringside seat
and smiled
as the circus performers
played to their audience
of one.
