UNDER THE BEDAt night as I lie in bed I see my old toy, the Tight Rope Walker Clown, as he sits atop my dresser, floppy shoes too big, painted eyes puffy and bloodshot, his withered wooden legs poking out of his tattered clown outfit like the legs of old men in the winter of life. He sits on his unicycle, forever alone and silent, gears stripped, the mechanism broken beyond repair. His gaze, directed toward infinity, mirrors disaster as I imagine him making his way across the taut wire stretched out before him.
Shadows move unerringly up the dresser as the curtain billows outward and a cold breeze suddenly sweeps across my face. Outside, a horn honks, the sound muffled by distance and a row of thick maple trees. Again, the curtain whips against the wind and then there is silence, as if th
