Our Town Clown

Some said he was just a drunken hobo, others claimed he was a clown gone insane, where he was from, where he went, they didn't know. There was that smallish, middle-aged dude I often saw at five at a busy street corner in my childhood in the old neighborhood; he seemed to enjoy peering and gesturing at his own reflection on the boutique's glass window, playfully posturing; his sunglasses seemed trendy in the past, blackish violet enough for staring long and hard at a thermonuclear blast; his hair, hacked short above his brows, dangled down his shoulders long and wet like overcooked spaghetti on the house; his slit of a mouth was often grinning, his petulant lips seemed to cheer or jeer at imaginary peacocks pride parading; flighty fingers would twirl and flick as though conducting a particularly perplexing piano piece with a stick. Some said he was just a drunken hobo, others claimed he was a clown gone insane, where he was from, where he went, we didn't know.