Disgust floats from the dressing
room like
balloon animals made
to carry,
and later pop despite
the given space for tied knots and
flexibility.
His pants sag on the coat rack,
oversized and weighing
down the shoulders
with hula hoop belt loops.
The face
turning from casualty
to demise,
complacent in misery
as the painted smile
hangs
like shoelace nooses
from bunk beds every night
under the big top.
Zach Fishel
Zach Fishel is a recent Pushcart nominee and graduate student at the University of Toledo. His work has appeared or is forthcoming from Gloom Cupboard, A Few Lines Magazine, Magic Cat Press, Bolts of Silk, The Montucky Review, Mad Swirl, and many others. His mantra is rye or die, and he can read palms if the price is right. Feel free to find him on Facebook.
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