I saw a sad, smiling clown standing on a street corner, an empty length of string dangling from its left hand. I approached slowly and somewhat warily, as is proper with clowns. As I neared, I could make out her great sad eyes set in a tear-streaked snowscape perched atop a now empty grin. Her head swung from side to side as she urgently surveyed the sky above, from horizon to horizon.
I asked what she was doing.
She slowly lowered her gaze to me and said, “He got away again.”
“Who did?” I asked.
“Why, Billy the balloon-bodied dog, of course.”
She returned her gaze to the heavens and walked away, giant clown shoes falumph, falumph, falumphing against the stonework as she went.