author’s note:

Okay, maybe I didn’t actually see a skeleton.  But I did happen upon the pickup truck pictured above.  And from that rusted husk came this poem.
 

CLOWN SKELETON

A sudden shock
while walking over
a lost forest trail:
          I spot a skeleton sitting
in the driver’s seat
of a rusted pickup truck shell.

The will-o’-the-wisp I glimpse
becomes merely a glint of sunlight:
in those dingy bones I find no spirit.

As I approach closer I realize
even my old movie memories
can not give this coat hanger life–

the infamous grin of death
–with its happy threat–
fell off long ago
with the lower jawbone–
all the upper teeth followed.

Only a silly baseball cap
perched atop the skull
provides some animation:
death has gone goofy on us.

The hand bones delicately rest
on the cracked steering wheel–
not to guide the vehicle
but as part of a structure
that maintain the vertebrae
in a prim upright posture–

looking pretty pleased with itself
this–what?–who supported this rack?–
a dust farmer? a fruit peddler? a camping tramper?–
I can’t really say as I care:
no ghost; therefore, no mystery.

Moss creeps up hip bones
that poke into bare rusty springs;
I spy a spider dangling
down the hollow of the ribs–

but don’t I already know
that death feeds life?

So then, why
was I drawn here–?–
what am I trying
to teach myself?

Maybe the skeleton means to say:
“I am death, and yet I am life.
 And so, I am also your life.
 You die every day.”

Ah, but that missing lower jaw
continues to intrude
on my sense of the aesthetic–ruins
the effect of any philosophy–

death can not lecture me–
I still feel comfortable.

“Without your teeth,”
 I say aloud–too loudly for this quiet forest–
“you have no bite.”

However, I can’t quite ignore
one whistling fear:
to end my days
in such a place–alone–forgotten–
going nowhere in a derelict truck–
just a clown set of bones…and worse yet–
no mouth, no voice…

no, no, no.

A fortunate encounter,
a fortunate reminder:
this card of death has given my life
a little more desperation,
and even more resolve.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
dream steps
earnest audio