I met a clown in plain clothes
drinking in a bar—of course.
He told me a kid once asked him
“Are you a real clown?
Underneath the make up?”
and he didn’t know how to answer.
He said clowns were angry.
They’d been demonized,
no longer booked for parties.
So angry he had a mind to find
Stephen King’s house and stand
outside just pointing. In the rain.
“Everyone used to love clowns…”
I’m not cruel—I didn’t tell him
no one ever found them funny.
“… and women—they always love clowns!”
Amen to that. I called for another beer
and bought him a drink with an umbrella.
