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a journal of literature & art

The Literary Review

Issue 10                    Page 48

Clown Sporting Shoes

Little did I know that a well-known sporting

apparel company made clown shoes,

but there they were, on the person right in front of me,

multi colored ones with their logo proudly

displayed on the side. Maybe the rest of his

wardrobe didn’t indicate that he was

dressing up to be like a clown, but that didn’t matter,

those shoes gave him away. Shoes colored

in red, cornflower blue, and white, along with a

black heal that looked a little bit like

a rubber bumper that belonged on the front

of a bumper car from the amusement park,

something that didn’t match at all with the rest of the shoe,

and I had seen my share of clown shoes from my attendance

of various circuses over the years, and these definitely

fit that category, making his wardrobe unique,

but more than likely that was his intention,

as he proudly wore those shoes.

© Van Howell: Iron Bark

The Designated Street

Three street corners in a row,

someone stood outside asking for money,

holding up signs that I did not attempt

reading as I drove by,

concentrating with the duty on hand.

Yes, they wanted money,

and yes, I wanted to keep mine.

It was a stalemate, with no money changing hands,

and I wondered what brought them all to the same street?

Was it close to where they lived,

within walking distance,

or was it an ideal location as the

traffic came off the ramp

from the Interstate as I had just done?

Once again, no contact was made,

just strangers passing by with

no welcoming guests to line their pockets,

a part of the process, an unwanted result,

happening more often than what they preferred,

knowing that all would not help fund their cause.

Road Construction

I was driving in the right lane,

but in reality, I was in the wrong lane,

unless I wanted to wait where I was for days

as they worked on repairing the lane I was in,

but my car wasn’t stockpiled with food and water

to wait it out until the construction was completed.

Instead, I switched on my turn signal,

where another driver graciously let me

over to the other lane so I could

proceed with my journey,

only to find a little while later, in different section of the city,

this time driving in the left lane,

where once again, I was in the wrong lane.

It was one of those days when it didn’t seem

I could make a correct decision, with my car

seemingly wanting to follow the lanes under construction,

but I there was one good thing about the day, that

I wasn’t required to make any critical decisions,

especially those affecting life and death issues,

or for that matter, even where I wanted to go for lunch.

Are You Doing Okay?

The next donor coming into the room

upon witnessing a donor lying on the bed

who had become lightheaded while donating blood,

asked “Are you going to get me lightheaded too?”

It wasn’t a goal, but it was always a possibility,

but he survived that experience,

while the phlebotomist kept asking

the one having the temporary problem

if she was still okay as she sat in the canteen area,

now laughing after recovering,

wondering if she would hear this

everywhere she went for the rest of the day,

even when she went to the restroom,

with one of them looking over the stall,

“Are you doing okay?”

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