CLOWNING

When I was a boy,

well before puberty,

for Christmas I got a plastic clown,

a punching bag.

You had to blow it up

and it was a lot of work to get it stiff,

straining and pushing,

sweating and grunting,

plugging the hole with your tongue while you rested,

watching the plastic inflate

until it stood erect,

pellets underneath keeping it upright,

so you could knock it out

and have it get right up again

before you knew it.

The thing was the shape

of a bowling pin, wide at the base,

round and red on top,

with a smiley face,

thick mouth painted

in an obscene grin. But

its rising was too gentle,

a kind of sleepy recovery

that only gave you one good bust,

then a long wait to have it rock

and right itself for the next assault.

Not like on TV,

where young studs punched and poked,

kicked and jabbed effortlessly

in rapid exercise. So I

tired, left it sagging

in the corner of the room unused.

Now I think it was a brilliant toy,

a thing of endless wonder,

a premonition of Viagra.

I wish I had it back so

I could give it the respect it deserved.

No matter the wait between its standings

I would savor the pleasure of every rise,

and every punch would count.