What I loved most about that clown
was that — out of everyone there
from the joyful crowd in my town —
he rode his unicycle to where
I sat because he noticed my frown.
I was just a tear-stained tyke
in a lonely sea of laughter.
In front of me he dropped his bike —
a trapeze swung high in a rafter.
His eyes expressed we were much alike.
He wiped a tear off his kind face
then folded his fingers with his thumb.
When he opened his fist he held a vase —
three buds for me: gold, white, and plum.
Then he disappeared without a trace.
Written for The Mag: Mag 118 that inspired with the above photo prompt (The Circus With the Yellow Clown, 1967, Marc Chagall).