Poem #13 of 365: Tears of a Clown

An 8-track plays number 1 on the stereo

while I laugh because I'd never seen tears  of a clown--I walk around, smiling, 

pretending to cry, entertaining the  adults until they get annoyed. The house 

fills with Smokey's smooth voice knocking 

down the walls, finding its way into the 

ears and souls of those long gone. The

adults play cards and drink drinks

while I sit in my room on the burgundy 

comforter lightly coated with coal dust 

atop white sheets with black feet stains. 

Mama always said to bathe before 

I go to bed--but my  feet always 

get dirty. She dances, telling me to spin her. 

I'm half her height and she ends up  turning me so the room spins and I'm drunk 

on her giddyness. Her kisses smell  like stale jim beam and menthol cigarettes. 

I turn away and she kisses me again, laughing.

She puts me to bed, turns out the light, 

and closes the door.