Get Me Out of Here
The bald face of Mt. Forist,
powdered with snow,
grins at me like a clown
grabbing attention away from the blue.
I need space to chase the blues,
to find my way out of the forest.
Like all claustrophobics know,
being enclosed is nothing to clown
around about. I hate clowns
and mountains. The wind that blew
last night got caught in the forest
of hills choking me, flinging snow
into my lungs. I’m breathing snow-
y death. I dream of that summer clown—
the sun sparkling on miles of ocean blue,
wide open spaces, a shorn forest.
I yearn for rest from walls of snow.
I’m a stuck jack-in-the-box clown and I’m blue.