The Clown's Funeral
I like thinking about what life is like
for you. Instead of hiding behind rocks,
or stalking you from trees. I sit in a chair
and wonder deep and incredible things
for you. A piccolo concert at the Super Bowl,
the applause simply deafening. A wedding
on a hang-glider for forty guests, the priest
watching in awe as you both slip on rings
without crashing. Except, even I know the truth.
You're picking your shorts out of your ass
as you exit the car for the clown's funeral.
You pump gas for all comers, as they line up
to suck it through the hole. Maybe that's
what I like to imagine most. Your face,
punished by the baby birds at your knees.
Donald Illich responds to art, economics, and Country Music not paying him for his poems.