Laughing Woman

(This poem was written in class, on a picture of an old homeless woman in Chicago laughing despite broken teeth and wild hair)

Comedy was
Eyes and,
you know,
that Window
even in freezing weather.
Professor
slapped a ruler on
the back of
hands
when giggling was heard.
At nine
O’clock sharp
the circus opened,
and from that open hand
with painted tears
were no dreams about
anything but
red tiger grins:
A chorus of souls, light and frightened all at once, but,
Ultimately,
Together –
and ridiculously
colored flowers.
Cameras existed then.
It wasn’t something we could not know.
A picture of me, though…
?!
He asked where I got the pretty flower.
I know, he thought me
off my ever-loving rocker.
I indulged,
he crackled lightning,
and we were a chorus again.