the old clown

the old clown

sits in a folding chair

behind the tent,

makeup smeared like regret,

cigarette burning down

between two yellow fingers

that once caught knives

and applause

 

he's been kicked by ponies,

pissed on by dwarfs,

drunk with sad acrobats

who smelled like chalk and failure.

he's slept in trucks,

shivered through Kansas winters

with a broken flask and a busted heater,

telling himself

the next town would be better

 

he thinks about walking out.

not a grand exit, no spotlight,

no curtain call.

just leave the clown suit

on a chair

and vanish into the dark

like smoke off the end of a bad cigar

 

Done