There’s a clown in my driveway, dancing a jig.
Orange hair, white jumpsuit with big red and blue polka dots, huge floppy yellow shoes, American flag waving in one hand.
He’s dancing, but not for joy.
His blood-red greasepaint grin splits his face,
but his mouth is not smiling as he bobs and spins.
I watch from my window, safe behind these four walls.
What is he to me, I think. Ignore him, he will go away.
Round and round goes the dancing clown, and then he stops,
hand pointing straight at me, a demonic gleam in his little piggy eyes.
I turn to the front door to make sure it is locked.
When I turn around, he is standing right behind me.
Got anything in the oven? he asks, leering, his eyes raking my body.
Get out of here or I’ll call the police, I cry.
I don’t think so, he replies, purloining my favorite armchair, wiggling his fat posterior into a comfortable position.
There are too many of these clowns.
Look around you, they are everywhere.
It started with a ride down an escalator.
Where it ends is anybody’s guess.
You’re watching, one little incident after another,
Yes, you’re watching, just another frog in the slowly simmering water.
Collective complacency will reap a bitter harvest.
Grab the hammer and break the glass. Yank the handle hard.
It’s time to get into good trouble.
Susan Greenberg Feltman 