Colloquial
On the corner stands a circle of clowns, chain smoking and explicating from behind their face
paint smiles. Off duty, their make up becomes lazy and runs from eye creases and smears into
hair lines. The words of the clowns are carried away by traffic sounds, but one laughs sharp like
a barking horse, and one is smoking a clove, given away by a shifting breeze. The others are
serious. Their lips, their real lips, are tight and pressed behind their oily grease smear
expressions. I watch them, an absurd little island in a rushing river of business suits and flesh
tone faces. None of the fleshies are looking at the clowns. I wonder if I’m the only one who can
see them. Traffic stops to let them cross, and I realize I have no idea what clowns talk about
amongst themselves.
Originally published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal: A Collection of Vignettes from Across the Globe