Randy’s bicycle helmet could never part with his hair,
forty years of paranoia convinced him of brain-bucket God.
Faith in his hat assured his facial features have an anchor,
the heresy of a naked skull or even chinstrap unclipped- a sin.
He’d rather believe this, headgear to keep his face from damage,
than for people think last week’s circus had misplaced clown.
But the small town did host that night a certain lost clown,
a wanderer who wove through the world like girl’s braided hair.
She held no agenda for life, for Lane had seen too much damage
caused by everything but the grace brought by her two feet, and god
how every night a new town felt as sweet as saint’s first sin.
She skips the smooth rock of security on silent water, no need to anchor.
Randy leaves his flat after sunset, strange sounds throw a heavy anchor
into the bottom of his gut- fear. As a toddler cowers at the sight of a rodeo clown,
he cannot tolerate the dark streets, alleys laced with night’s sin.
Summer storm’s angry winds reach below Randy’s helmet, teases his hair.
Randy considered the trees, swayed by wind’s force- wonders what god
would give this invisible hand such potential to damage.
Randy ventured out for butterscotch pudding, but plans suffered damage
when he could not find that food he eats thrice a day, his anchor
to end every meal. He’s heard ambrosia was the nectar of god,
believes it must taste like butterscotch. The familiar package, cartoon clown
clutches spoon drawn larger than his head, carmel globs in rainbow hair-
how can it be out of stock? He hoped the store felt this new sin.
Night’s sorrow caused clouds to sob with rain as cold as sin.
Townspeople scrambled to shelters, safe from storm’s damage,
but Lane had no roof to keep the sky’s frustration out of her hair,
desperate to steal any new treasure as stormy anchor,
her eyes scan the sidewalks until she spots some clown-
a man in a helmet, but with no bicycle- swear to god.
Lane shouted at the sky as if she was talking to god
and wanted him to hear crystal clear every sin,
one eye peeled opened, she tracked the attention of the clown.
Waited until when he stopped, turned- Lane decides on her damage.
She was swift when she struck, tore his helmet, his anchor
away so quickly, Randy could only clutch his exposed hair.
Randy walked to the bridge over the quarry, contemplated Lane’s damage,
He was a freighter moored in rapid waters, Lane pulled up the heavy anchor.
Randy swiftly ran aground, no helmet protection when rock meets hair.