In Bed With A Clown
Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up,
but a comedy in long-shot.
—Charlie Chaplin
I picked pinch by pinch
the dirt and dust
on his mustache;
I peeled off the tiny dot
of white makeup
thickly clinging on his forehead;
the tip of his nose
still had the indentation
of the red rubber ball he made.
I held his feet on my lap,
but his toes were too tired
to move in excitement;
his thighs were stiff
from dancing all afternoon
and running after bursting bubbles;
I let go of his arms
weak from pumping balloons
and doing handkerchief magic.
His lips silently pale
in their moment of nonchalance,
I did not touch;
I thought of that evening
when we first met in Lausanne—
that winter froze the lake;
the city lights were bright again
the following August
when we decided to kiss.
His eyes were wide awake
either measuring the vastness
or painting the gray of the ceiling;
I unfastened his shirt
one button at a time,
but my tickling made him cry;
he looked at me,
and I wondered if it was arthritis
or my feigned smile.
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