Clowny the Goof (1963)

I was Clowny the Goof to make her laugh.

Her smile reminded me of some pet shop window wish

of long ago,

and it cuddled me.                                

Her fuzzy perfume

fluttered witty things from my heart‑swollen throat

...everything clever.

I was never serious with her;

for, when she cuddled and fluttered me with

that wide‑eyed laugh of hers,

she made the Goof a coward.

But now the show is over

all my circus tents are folded

my forced good humor,

her amazing laugh

all of a summer world that's gone.

This hearselike bus takes me from her, dead.

Cold, determined wheels whir

the invisible highway.

Sleeping passengers drool their condolences,

slumping to take me by the elbow,

seeming to mouth in large, gaping syllables,

"Gentle. Gentle now."

Wasted concern,

for tears won't escape this pallid grease.

This speeding bus--

tires keyed to my dirge--

streaks the night lights of the city across my window,

where they're cooled through a

sterile blue‑tinted glass that

stirs my memory dryly:

She never called my game,

never gave me the word;

and I can't think of one funny thing to say.

-art gatti, 1963