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a poem by Jason L. Huskey (1 of 2)

Clown Face

Every day he suffers
a self-induced whiplash
from a lack of sleep --
candles burnt to the embrace
of empty off-white walls --
and the second-hand metronome
of his great-grandfather's
wind-up pocket watch.

Every morning he peels off
the face paint of night and drives
two hours through hell
to get to his chains and desk.
Some days, he feels like
an out-of-work stunt driver,
rendered useless by computer graphics,
and not a penniless clown,
rendered useless by the death of laughter.

© by Jason L. Huskey
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #18 ~ November 2011    next poem