The Sleepdancers

One crunch of fangs is all the thanks I'd get, Were I to join the waltz behind their bars. I tried to look away; but shan't forget This circus dance of sixteen mangy bears.

Their jowls, like good sports in a comic paper, Grin their Indignity. Explore that word. Your "injured and insulted," here they caper. I wish I really thought they were absurd.

And do you think so, snout-chained soul of man, You audience whose paws erupt that rumpus? You middle-aged and grouchy, gypped of fun. You growlers all, inelegantly pompous.

And tell me, do they sleepdance, just like—you? Nightly do they keep step, the whole sixteen, When on the roof their plumpness teeters through The canvas of the carnival-canteen?

Beneath the roof, their Chainer is carousing. If he but guessed what bear-hugs overhead Flatten the moon they fly to when they're drowsing! . . . Suppose they crash? Who shrives bears when they're dead?

Shall cats and curs, that cringed to watch them lope, Now dice to divvy and lug home their fat? If I'm around, I'll put a stop to that. I'll honor gaucheness anywhere I find it

And the deep sadness of a shaggy hope.