Sitting ever so quiet, in a yellowed plastic sanctuary, laced with hearts and music notes, the clown looking starry-eyed backdrop in a blackened night, accusingly peers through the container at the passerby.
He twitches and a melodious voice singing “It’s a Small World” bellows forth, his costume smooth as a polished gem, smiling unconditionally at spectators, once a part of a variant collection, now officially alone a country away.
Memories of a small town, proud Nana, rapid falls, family visits and in the palm of his hands, everlasting love.
Copyright Corbie Sinclair 2011

Another workshop piece, a prose poem bringing to life and object. This piece is for One Shot Wednesday.

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