Smokey the Clown

Like all birthday clowns, they put on a wholesome show.
Tell us when to stop and where to go.
Then sneak away for a nail job, a sip and a smoke.

They come back to the party red-eyed and wobbly.
Nobody notices or even cares anymore.
Their painted masks growing thick with our pain.
After all, that's what clowns are all about...
Stuffing rouged cheeks into rain clouds.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2021

Poem

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Sambourne Avatar
February 12, 2021 at 7:33 PM
Another thoughtful poem. It invites speculation. Who are these birthday clowns? Politicians, media personalities? A fine, exploration read. Enjoyable. Best wishes, Brian
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