Men in red vests enter in the wake of the crowd’s leaving,

their sneakers rustling hollow soda cups and corndog sleeves.

This is the dingy hush of half-eaten pretzels, half-empty

popcorn buckets. When the crew has finished clearing debris

from this Friday night of bullshit wrestling, they’ll scatter

sawdust, they’ll upright barrels for bulls to tip over,

for clowns to spill out from. And when the polka dots,

all the wigs and scarves are erased, they’ll build dirt-soaked ramps