cup of sugar

my neighbor, alan,
who happens to be
a professional circus
clown, stopped by
the other day
to borrow a cup of sugar.
brown or white, i asked
him. and he said why
on earth would i want
brown sugar. baking, i
said, perhaps you're
baking some cookies
or a cake. he was grumpy
and a lit cigarette
dangled from his lips.
traces of fake tears
were still painted on his
whitened face. i could
smell whiskey on his
breath. there were bags
beneath his eyes
and a fresh scratch on
his cheek from what
looked like fingernails.
i'm brewing a pot
of coffee he said,
and i need a few
teaspoons of sugar.
he still had the remants
of his clown make up
on, but it was smudged
and greasy looking, as
if he had started with
the cold cream and then
gave up. his hair was
matted down from the red
wig and derby that i've
seen him wear when he goes
to work. no floppy shoes,
or big red ball nose. only
his billowy clown costume,
which was a radiant
yellow, with big green
dots. there looked
to be a gravy stain
down the front of it.
rough night, i asked him.
he nodded, still holding
out the bowl that he wanted
me to put sugar into.
yes, he said. i broke
up with my girlfriend, lulu.
maybe you've seen her, she
rides the elephants, short
girl, cute. he indicated
her height with a shaky hand.
no, i said, i don't go
to the circus. the smell.
i don't like the whole
deal. it makes me nauseous.
he shrugged. she ran
off with Reginald,
the strongman. weightlifter
guy. bastard. she sent
me a text message
during the show to tell me.
i was in the clown car
with nine other clowns
when i got the text. damn,
i said, then poured
some sugar into his bowl.
enough? that's good,
he said, thanks, then
went down the steps, back
to his house in his bare feet.