Clowns

When you made the bet you weren’t kidding,
I know this because you were dressed
as a clown might on his day off,
and so when I shook on it, I too
dressed in pantaloons as vivid
as my lost dreams of you
made no jokes nor did I
sign the slip before
throwing it
into the baying ring, the one you retired in
years before anyone could lay un-gambled dice
on your made-up eyes
or mimic and mime the spit in the palm
the strange sense of calm we all felt when
my hat landed in the space you'd left.

Clowns will claim their arena – it’s why
their first move is always to test the edge
of the ring where the dung meets the popcorn
and the tears of a child 
whose birthday treat went awry 
suddenly blends with the piss 
of kidnapped creatures.

Even now, I think of you in your work clothes,
arms aloft, angled dangerously against those
unspeakable shoes, eyes locked on the children
speechless between laughter and tears,
and not being a betting man,
I can’t say if what will be indeed will be
or if your desperate honking will stir them,
or move me.