The Black Clowns are Back

Twenty-four black clowns getting out of a hearse
Throwing moon pies at the doors of the unsuspecting
Dancing in the dark streets, singing woeful tunes
Brenda, where are you? Come to the window

Twenty-four crows baked into a crusty moon pie
Still alive, cawing “Stop the madness!” with vigor
We all forgot where we were for a moment
Until Connie appeared at the window and sang

Twenty-four women sang my water-dripping song
Christiane leading, lilting, trickling in the night
The black clowns played on, yesterday’s dark jazz
But they never lifted their voices in song again

Twenty-four open windows, chorus in black robes
Evenly matched, paralyzed, Spanish Angel Eyes
Who’ll come down to the pot-holed streets with me?
To slow-dance, sparkle-sing, and moon-cry?