“I’m Coco” - Joan Willard

Big Top

Excited children fill the gaudy tent
that smells of grease-paint, horses, sawdust, sweat.
Bright strident music ushers to the ring
acrobats
in coloured, spangled tights,
cossacks, tumblers,
jugglers,
arial acts.
I’m there as well, with high-arched brows,
huge whitened eyes,
inverted horseshoe mouth,
red hair that points north, south, east and west.
I’m famous for the way I dress – white gloves,
old baggy pants, shapeless tartan coat,
large ribboned medals pinned across my chest.
I clown, fall, bow and make the audience laugh.
I’m Coco.

Cat Walk

The chairs have gilded feet, the champagne flows
in this salon,
where well-heeled vendees watch a spotlight beam
on reed-slim models,
who glide and pose to show
this season’s dresses, suits and casual wear.
The audience is entranced.
And when the show is done, I enter, dressed
in stunning black, gilt chains, faux pearls,
white gloves,
enveloped in a veil of ‘Numero Cinq’.
I hear applause. Bravo! I bow, I smile,
they love me for my flair, my chic, my style.
I’m Coco.

Joan Willard