Clown by Paula Puolakka

Paula Puolakka | July 11th, 2021 | poetry | No Comments


Over ten years ago, I told everybody that
she’s no good: in her eyes, I saw a misanthropic fog,
and I heard her blurt out half-baked thoughts concerning
air travel and the political right.
While I was planting trees and knee-deep in the dirt
she was grooming her dreadlocks, the “symbol of global hurt.”

After she was elected, I told everybody that
she would not keep her promises, and I was right.
In the new city, she thought that she was a kind of a queen,
and, suddenly, gone were her dreadlocks and jeans:
she appeared on TV in a custom-made dress,
and her hair was “Ten Voss” and her makeup “YSL.”
She, also, decided to have a baby
– an interesting choice for the antisocial lady –
and flying business class became her therapy.

Two days ago, I saw her picture in a magazine:
a thick layer of white foundation was covering her face,
and her lips were screaming, “Red,” to stimulate the male Communists.
This clown had been elected, again,
to do the things she had promised to do a decade ago:
however, now, she is upper-class and posh, so,
the chance to see her rebel against anything is close to zero.

We watched her take shape, but it seems,
I’m the only one, who saw her true motives.

Poet Bio

Paula Puolakka (1982) is a Beat poet, writer, and MA (History of Science and Ideas.) On June 3, her author interview was published by Penable.

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