I hate you, clown.

Your playful sobriquet,

impish theatrical mischief

but I see you clown.

Lampooning around,

hiding homicidal tendencies.

Red-nosed-

"from boozing," my brother jokes.

You should be getting boo-ed!

I see you clown.

Approaching me, six foot one

to my four foot nine.

Wide brim pants and floppy shoes,

the bane of my coulrophobia.

Don't you dare come near me!

Your painted on red smile cracks

at the corners of your mouth.

Beads of sweat polka dot above your brow.

Are you nervous, clown?

Are you scared like me, clown?

My apprehension clusters up,

"No, I do not want to smell your flower!"

My small bunched up fist

connects beneath your white triangular eye.

Surprise mirrors us far too long.

My mothers muffled voice,

my fathers grasp upon my neck,

all I can think is-

"Holy heck!" My brothers cheer

mimics my very thought.

I see you clown.

And you see me.

My first trip to the circus at nine years old.

© June 7, 2017. Meg.