Thinking about how Dad used to Sweep Up after Circuses at the Portland Memorial Coliseum
by Robert Wynne

Somehow each red nose
Constantly blossoms into
An open wound, until everything
Reminds you of the kitten
You crushed with the garage door –

Coming down like grease paint
Lost in a wash of tears. But remember
Only the guilty fear wonder
With its promise of surprise.
No one forgives themselves.

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