The clown does Shakespeare
and we laugh.

Hidden waif, tortured reader,
stolen son, serious child,

why do we howl when you misbehave,
cry, when you are kind?

We join with you in your threadbare costume—
I can live without you, father, but must have butter,
at least one mutt or another; I steal without
you, mother, though I’ll never cease to seek you.

I, the child who was no child, still playing a child of the wild.
I, the wild found in the child, the child in you and me.
I, the man, chased through mirrors of time, flight, possession.
I run, you watch, I stop at the doorstep, wait for you to arrive;
I cross the threshold, step on a loose board, stagger, roof sags,
symphony patiently waits for me to rise, you hold your breath,
a cymbal crash as everything falls on my head; it’s so much like life,

that’s what you’ll say as you leave the theatre.

You will always remember me,
the words you never heard.
You’ll laugh as I sing
my silent song, dance it on your plate
with the food of my sorrow,
look at you with a love that knows you
won’t love me back. But my eyes will always
smile, as I turn a pirouette for you, love,
plain as the moustache painted on my face.