The white comedian

A smirk of joy
With a red stroke smeared 
Across his face. 
Blood? 
No, no life was lost
From ear to ear—
Just paint.

Sometimes he would pace 
Slowly at night. 
He was not confined, 
Nor was he locked 
Up—he was 
Placed highly above the others, 
Behind the looking glass.

As fragile as he is, 
He must be careful. 
He has an image to keep
(And no dream to sleep). 
It has always been easier for him
To be still. 
So why stop now?

Dale Chou
2002-02-07