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I took my sadness for a walk.

I walked it right out of the park, past the tram stops and onto

the streets flooded with the slow, hesitant steps of old age.

I walked and walked and walked it out of my body.

Then I walked some more with it like one walks with a walking stick

until it got blunt.

Popov the Clown died yesterday.

Popov the Clown used to say, ‘as long as you have somewhere to go,

you’ll live another day.

But when you don’t know where you’re going tomorrow, you’re nearing

death.’

So I walked. Walked my sadness. Showed it the way.

And after just about enough walking,

I felt invigorated and could stand again.

So I set it free like a helium balloon and said, ‘Go now.

Go

make the trees red. My eyes have cried enough.’

It’s late. It’s November.

A tiny airplane inches forward across the spotless blue sky.

And the sun bathing my face is a thing of beauty.