06/27/2026
TWO POEMS FOR THE KI****ER, TWO YEARS GONE TODAY...
"Missing Kinky."
There is a midsummer's rain
soaking the circus grounds tonight,
and my big floppy clown shoes are
catching in the mud puddles, as
I make my way down the line
of train cars, where the
acrobats and the lion-
tamers and the
dancing bears
are snoring in
their bunks
& cages,
getting
rested
for the next
day's matinee,
& as is my nightly
routine, I stop by the
last car in the train, being
refitted now for the conductor
of a military marching band, but
the sign still reads: "The Wild Man
From Borneo!" I slip inside, &
close the door behind me,
& the rain is pelting the
plywood roof like The
Lord making
popcorn in
the sky--
& yet, after
all this time, the
stillness of the empty
car still takes my breath
away, as I plop down in his
chair, and notice the stub of
an old cigar resting in his
glass ashtray, itself
placed upon a
short stack of
poetry
books,
which he
used to
sit &
read
aloud
to me, on
a thousand
endless nights,
many towns and
moons ago, as I'd
sip his whiskey, and
lose myself in his stories
and regrets, his wild eyes
glistening with rain when-
ever his gaze would find
the poster of the
tattooed lady
on the wall,
torn at
the corner,
& yellow with age--
& I remember our last
night together, on the
circus train, in this
room, in the final
days, when he
didn't say
much
any-
more,
& I realized
I'd already had
my last conversation
with the Wild Man From
Borneo, & how it broke my
heart & he must have known,
because he just sat there
and smiled at me, with a
fatherly warmth in his
old, travelled face, &
I tried to say every-
thing I had to
say to
him
with
my eyes,
but mostly,
simply, "I love you,
Kink, and thank you for
always believing in me..."
And as I close the door
behind me tonight, and
carefully walk back
home to my car in
the rain, with the
moon reflecting
in the water
of the
mud
puddles
splashing
against my
big floppy clown
shoes, I wonder if he's
happy now? I wonder if
he's free? I wonder if he
ever knew the mark he left
on me? I'll ask him some-
day, I tell myself, when I
see him again, in the
place beyond the
center ring,
where
the
clowns
& outlaws
gather at the
end of the rainbow,
but until that day, I'll still
be missing Kinky, with the
taste of greasepaint on my
lips, & rolling down my
face in a mid-
summer's
rain.
_______
"Hummingbird Happy Hour."
For years, I sat with the old Jew
on the porch of his cabin over-
looking Echo Hill, and as
we'd smoke our Luckies
and ci**rs and talk
about our lives, the
hummingbirds
would arrive,
and gorge
themselves drunk on the
sugar water from a dozen
feeders hanging from
the roof, placed
there by his
mom &
dad
in
Nineteen-Fifty-Three,
and the buzzing hum
of their wings sounded
like monks chanting
ancient, sacred
prayers,
for
it was a
peaceful place,
this old Jew's porch--
And then, just yesterday,
my wife wired our only
feeder to the edge of
the roof of our own
screened-in
porch,
and
as
we sat & watched & talked
about our life together, a
lone hummingbird
zipped over, and
started sip-
ping sugar
water
through his long, needle
beak, and we smiled
at each other, my
wife and me, as
I chuckled,
fondly--
"Hey, Kinky…"
___________
Copyright 2026 by Sean Rima.
Both poems appear in "Wild West Show, Complete Poems 1985-2025" available on Amazon at this link: https://a.co/d/09klvLH9
