The clown would’ve been beaten up and down
a long time ago, if he didn't know
how to force scowls into smiles,
bafflement and battles into laughs
like startled bells and baby rattles.

Who would he be now, if he didn't know
how to play the jester, how to stitch
his words together
like the mouth of a snitch
or a quilt of dodo feathers?

He learned it from pain: how to be a joker,
how to act the fool.
Does it count, still, as stand-up comedy
if he's just crying on a stool?