The Clown

Shouldn’t it be funny

that the one whose profession is to make happiness

is the one whose smile has the saddest skew?

Underneath the bright facade

a smile stretched in crimson paint.

The red lips, too full, spill out into a frown,

the depressed clown.


And perhaps this is why, 

all the children sense fear.

Commonplace superstition of an emotional lie.

Why the aunt’s ink sketch on the yellow wall,

of the clown with the wrinkled face,

the drooping eyes and voluptuous nose,

always scared the little girl.


It told her the funny truth she didn’t know.

The way she’ll eventually grow

to paint a smile ever so faint,

over her daily frown.


Veronica Russell

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