SOUVANKHAM THAMMAVONGSA
The Rusty Toque | Issue 13 | Poetry | November 30, 2017
Clown
He was standing at the corner with all his blown-up balloons He made shapes out of the air and no one understood what it was for He held these out to anyone who would take them and said they were animals or flowers, his heart He had spent years training for this moment on the corner handing out nothing His big bright red shoes glowed like his hair and eyes and mouth He wanted us all to stop and listen and look at what he made and be his friend He insisted what he made was art We had all loved this clown once before and joined his brand of entertainment We saw what he looked like without all that make-up, the prop, the candy I love you, he said, and we filed out of our houses and filled up the city for him We alone understood what he made We were there when the rooms filled with the friends he wanted We were there before you were, before you knew you could win And when I quit and spun to split the green bottles spinning he turned and disappeared A clown is a clown and will always go back to being a clown It is the sadness of his calling, the joke and code of his ethic |
SOUVANKHAM THAMMAVONGSA is writer in residence at the University of Ottawa. Her writing has appeared in Granta, NOON, and other places.
