William Greenway
Rodeo Clown

It’s my job when we’re in Mississippi
and the old man, pumped on loneliness,
televangelism, and the New
Living Translation, turns
on her, his back humped in holiness,
with the horns of the very ark itself
aimed straight for her heartless heart.
That’s when I hie to the bathroom, shuck
my ordinary clothes and become
Preacher’s Kid: baggy pants of the meek,
nose and suspenders red as the blood
of the lamb, waving the winged bandanna
of the holy ghost. Then,
from my barrel I quote the scriptures
right back at him like a back fire
till he’s ring-nosed enough
to be led back
into the barn
where he kneels and remembers
the mewling of the holy child
he once had, or the one he’s hearing
clearer day by day, his light returning
to its star.