The ghost of that old clown, the one who juggled cacti
in the desert air, sunburnt and sour, sat down
beside me at the bus stop. \"Listen, pal,\" he said,
\"there\'s nothing left to juggle but feathers and regrets.\"
So I took him to the grocery store, aisle 9,
past canned laughter and pickled outrage.
\"See,\" I whispered, \"they’ve replaced the toothpaste
with apologies and the cereal with guilt flakes.\"
He shook his spectral head, a balloon deflating.
In the parking lot, two pigeons argued over
the last french fry, a greasy monument to something
we used to call joy. \"They don\'t get offended,\" I said,
\"they just peck and coo and move on.\"
The clown sighed, his painted tears almost believable.
\"Maybe,\" he suggested, \"we should just all wear red noses
and honk at the sky. Maybe we should laugh at the moon
when it looks at us sideways.\"
We stood there until dusk, imagining a world
where rubber chickens replaced keyboards
and every punchline was a tickle, not an insult.
We could still hear the pigeons fighting in the dark,
but we imagined they were dancing.