On the lolli-pop ride back home
with the circus band playing
on my transistor radio,
and a bit of your rainbow wig
left on the headrest of the
passenger seat,
I scream out the window,
“I love you the way a child
loves the circus!”
Your huge face turns to me,
and with four colored smiles
you suggest that I
stop talking nonsense.
Seeing you as a clown,
I realize, marks the downfall
of our relationship.
I do not have a healthy
respect for clowns.
When you woke me up
this morning, I wasn’t happy
like yesterday,
I was annoyed. Driving you home
was a chore, the way
cleaning up after elephants,
sticking your head in the lion’s mouth,
or doing a favor for someone
you are growing out of, can be.
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