Only the Ringmaster wears the hat

And the first was my grandfather.

The top hat, found in a box on the floor

Of a tired little shop.

The tent, old fabrics sewn together.

The costumes, bits and pieces from flea markets And clearance bins.

The performers? Foundlings.

Lost and then brought together, by him.

It was all him.

The song and dance

The flips and turns and jumps

The intrigue and suspense

The throngs of happy faces and delighted laughs

That came from afar to see the magic

Under his tent, and he under the hat.

Until time moved him along.

Only the Ringmaster wears the hat

And the next was my mother.

The tent, the costumes

More polished, more vibrant

But the hat remained as she brought

The fire.

Fire that enchanted

So they kept coming back.

Fire that flickered and sparkled

Through each daring jump and flip.

She commanded the fire to grow

Even bigger, more formidable

Even as performers fell

With singe marks on hair

And burns peppering skin.

The Ringmaster wears the hat.

The Ringmaster always has the final say.

The Ringmaster knows how to keep them,

Those happy faces and delighted stares,

From leaving

How to keep them laughing and yelling and

Begging

Begging for more.

They will never leave

So long as we keep them here

With fire, with embers that fly

Higher than any have flown before.

And the Ringmaster, with a sleek black top hat

Beckoning them closer.

See us, she says.

Love us.

Never leave us.

And we will never stop jumping through fire

No matter how it burns us

If you will only stay.

Only the Ringmaster wears the hat

And my mother has passed it down to me.

I was raised among fire

And faces

And burns

And magic that comes at a price.

I wear a black top hat

Found in a tired little shop

And I stand before a crowd

Screaming for more.

What else can I do?

How else would I make them stay?

I wear the hat

I give the command

And the fire burns before us all

And the only way to keep on

Is to jump right in.