A clown lifts you from the gutter
that runs deep and dirty along the street
before the church that sneers at the two of you
staggering up the street.

“Telling you, son, the next world we build
is gonna be tight,” the clown mutters. You get a look
at how smeared and thin his facepaint is
and pray that he’s right,

because that church keeps trying to sell you
on its vision of a next world
that sounds suspiciously
devoid of kitchens and fireplaces,

and right now all you want
is for this good clown to set you safely down
at some warm house with a high blaze
and a big pot of stew; then, after a while,

for him to wipe off the makeup
and pull open a notebook, saying,
“Telling you son, we can do this.
I got it all worked out.”

Sitting there poring over the plans,
you’ll start to laugh when you realize
he’s right, there’s a new world possible,
and all you have to do, you’ve already done

by getting up out of the church gutter
in the arms of a man some think is hysterical,
some think is insane, and no one thinks
might have the answer.

“Gonna be tight,” he’s saying again.  “Poor people
gonna rise up, get their share, like the song says.”
Poor people gonna rise up.  Like you did.
Like you always knew you could with a little help.