Clown Therapy

Clown says,

“C’mon, it’s all copasetic.”

Says,

“If you dare claim you are afraid of me
you can kiss my bagged-out ass.
Both our hearts are costumed;
my pulse is as naked underneath
as yours.”

Clown,
dress-up id,
says,

“Let’s get in that car with
my bosom friends. I’m
looking forward
to getting to know you.”

Open your eyes once inside.
You’re not laughing,
exactly; there’s not enough
room for that. But
you’re not crying exactly,
either.

All these shoes,
for one thing,
seem to have
improved your mood.

Clown says,
“This is called
getting over it,”

and you honk
your surprised assent.