The world needs comedians,
comedians need people who laugh,
the comedians have Arlen.

A boy with a big laugh,
to fill a hall, a building, to fill the world
with a shout of joy that is large.
A laugh to make others laugh, a laugh
that says, Success! If a joke is a question,
the comedians have their answer in my son.

The house of the child who loves to laugh
must be filled with the most proper guests:
in the kitchen, two chefs, Laurel and Hardy
provide feasts of frivolity, amuse bouche of mirth;
in the parlour, playing with toy trains is Buster
who proceeds to fall out a window, run away and trip;
Charlie presides in the grand ballroom, dancing on roller skates,
Maestro Chaplin concocting grand symphonies of elation and sorrow,
bright moments of triumph, darkness of profound pain –
Charlie tutors Arlen in the tapestry of humour,
invites him to dance, to sing, to eat his shoe –
he’s the one Arlen loves best.

There’s also the foolish groundskeeper, Red Green
who builds impossible machines in his workshop
made sublimely ridiculous, he’s not handsome
he’s handy! How Arlen laughs – Red’s in colour
but he plays in black and white,
he knows where he comes from.

One time, in the hospital, Arlen recovering
from neutropenia, the doctors do their rounds,
from the hallway, they hear him laugh,
come into the room, the head doctor, two or three
attending doctors, interns, a couple of nurses
(is that Harpo back there, honking his horn?)

The lead oncologist says, “You certainly like to laugh!
Who makes you laugh like that?” Arlen doesn’t blink
“Charlie and Red,” he replies. The doctor puzzled,
looks at me, I clarify, “Charlie Chaplin and Red Green,”
and doctors, nurses, interns, Harpo, forget the hospital,
forget themselves and laugh like someone told them
the best joke they ever heard.

Arlen sits in his hospital bed
he’s on stage now, and his smile says,
“Welcome to my mansion of joy.”