My brother thrilled to pummel and punch
that red-nosed clown again and again—
an inflatable plastic sack with a round weighted base—
and always the clown returned to standing.
Forty years later, I still don’t want to punch anything,
wish, instead, I could be more like that red and blue Bozo,
could roll and twist and spin each time
life knocks me over, and though I wobble,
though I bob, I would defy the laws of physics
return to standing, yes I would,
and find a way to smile.
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