Please Tell Me How We Can Stop Being So Offended

 

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.