Fear of Clowns
Over summer the circus came again to the Regatta Grounds
and all up and down in clear view of highway intersections
half-a-dozen huge jumping-castle sized inflated clowns
were blown up ridiculously and roped down in various front yards.
Six metres tall, with orange hair, the pink nose, big eyes and luber lips
and bobbing blue hats taller than the brick veneer and carport.
Sitting squat and wiggling in the wind like silly super-sized toddlers,
with their grimacing gigantic gargantuan gobs.
Coulrophobia is a ‘fear of clowns’, and arguably it’s well-founded.
I don’t know how Hobart Coulrophobiasts cope
when the circus comes to town and flogs its bill.
There’s no road out of town safe from the grease-paint monsters.
One Sunday morning when the winds really gusted up
I saw one of these jumping-castle clowns jump its fence.
It bounced like a nightmare nursery rhyme ball, its ropes dangling,
all the way over a six-lane highway to finish stupefied against a cyclone fence.