How afraid they were, the everybody,
that he’d be born on April Fool’s Day, but
he came more cleverly, one day early. Saved!
He grew into a most unpleasant man –
an abrasive irritant, yet unaware
just how and why he causes widespread rage.
The child he was could never get a joke.
When others laughed incomprehensibly,
he knew it must be him they laughed at … mocked.
And then at last it seemed he woke to humour.
Years later, I discern it was not so.
He learnt to fake it – imitate, pretend.
He’s gained a kind of humour now, at last:
the ability to laugh at others' pain
or their humiliation – just as, once,
when he was small, he thought they laughed at his.
He has his share of folly, but no fun.
He cannot clown around, devoid of jest.
If only he had waited just one day!
How much happier might we all have been
if only, blessedly, he’d been born a Fool?
if only, blessedly, he’d been born a Fool?
Written for Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads': 1: April is for Fools and Poets
