How to Dress and Be a Therapeutic Caring Clown

My long red-blonde hair my first address,
comb-parting down head centre’s back mess,
now gathering above each ear,
to tie making mini horse tails.

On my rack's find, a bright green T
to dress big balloon bosom me,
a mirrored chuckle I do see,
no need to exaggerate butt.

My style most cheerful and trendy
in my beautiful canary
double x painter's bibbed coveralls,
the last accessory is shoes.

Always my dream and great delight
to shop for shoes that are just right,
always, always one-of-a-kind
for striking co-ordination.

Today's find are designer shoes,
my flats coloured peacock blue,
long with rounded over-sized toe box,
satisfied—my look now complete

Except—to apply my makeup,
exaggerating long lashes,
with thick clumps of midnight black,
to flutter when they are needed.

To outline my lips in ruby,
taking their shapes lead but outside,
enhancing my so-called great smile,
now reaching towards both my ears.

Oh, but my many quandaries,
what do I do with my nose?
do I wear a bulbous big red?
or paint its tip a heart in red?

The later because it is me
each day and whatever I decree,
today it's healing in laughter,
to visit the sick and dying.

So now it's clowns in happy twos
strutting walking waddles on cue,
albeit a hesitancy,
to hospital ward allocation.

An elderly woman sits crying,
her husband now is dying,
no family at the bedside,
except for a couple of clowns,
at a loss for words—I did mime.

The clown and the me dropped a tear,
while holding hands and she in prayer,
Later told, “ I thought angels had wings,
now I know they have red noses.”

Tivonna