There's something quiet about a porch
halfway through May, the moon shifting,
hiding behind old pines, after midnight,
like a thief looking for love and
acceptance, adolescence burning bright.
There's something still about a porch,
something cool and silent except
for the two dollar bag of handmade clowns
waiting to come out of a forgotten basket,
or clown closet in a purple room,
to bring merriment to a sad shelf
with their lopsided smiles
and smirking eyes.
There's something about soft clowns,
all sizes, floppy ones with saggy pants
and pointed hats, polka dots and
large feet, that is endearing
because each one is so different,
and can never change
how they were made.
Made by someone's grandmother or mother,
eyes forever frozen, embroidered smiles eternal.
Sewn with love, unsigned but unappreciated
by people who fear human clowns.
I felt apologetic about the price,
but the woman was happy at the end of a hot
yard sale day, hot as in unseasonable.
That was two or three years ago, me not knowing
that the empty space of fish tanks
and my silly attempts to amuse my husband
would become a source of fleeting happiness
for both of us, as we make our journey
through this awful wonderland.