Clown

He hasn’t put on his face
today. Forlorn, he walks through
a bronze autumn, mashing brittle

memories underneath,
sauntering bewildered
around mist hidden woods.

Last night, finally, he had vomited his all-
the entire wrath that had piled up
each passing day.

No longer does he have to tolerate
the stale porridge of ridicule,
ogles and mimicry.

Life has given him many autumns.
He is now free, free for his ultimate act.
Let the vacant road and glum-faced willows
be the witnesses.