When the realtor points me outside, a pack of children dash
in every which way. They must be drawn to the giant circus mural on the garden wall,
a gaudy beacon amongst the dead and dying plants. I’m instantly enrapt myself—particularly
with the twenty-foot high clown in center ring—his spotted ruff brighter than any
bloom in the bleak plot. He wags a finger before a blood-red grin that belies the
cream pie in his hand, just peeking out from behind his back.
My gaze is only broken as a last urchin razzes me as she
swings her leg over the back wall and disappears. But just for a moment. When
the realtor finds me I am still staring.
“I’m mesmerized,” I admit, “The floppy shoes, the baggy
pants, the blue derby, the finger to his lips, arm cocked back ready to hurl a
pie. I cannot look away.”
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