Umberto Fiori

A playground, in a park. One lady raises to the top of the slide a ball of newspaper, gives it a kiss: "Ready . . . set . . . go!" Another holds a lampshade in her hands, smoothing its chenille bangs. "My daughter, you should see her dance— she's already won two prizes." "Did I tell you mine—he's three—can already write?" A girl, in line behind them with her son, is listening. She tightens her grip on his hand, hoping no one will notice he's real, and alive.

At the center of the lit circle, rising from cotton-candy calf muscles, the White Clown ushers his eyebrows skyward. He grates his ukulele, opens a heart-shaped mouth, inhales— his serenade begins. Now's the time. From the shadows, a blast like a trumpeting elephant: obscene, ragged. The Auguste capers like a fawn, darts away, pads around with his trombone. The gold of the slide slips into and out of the infinite. Everything smells of panther and piss and mint. His gaze fixed on the clash between the welled tears and the awful laughing shoes, the little boy grows ever more grave, ever more severe.