A new friend, Lafemmeroar, who inducted me into The Crazy Chicks Club, needed to see this poem, written back in 2010 but never published on my blog.  It’s a serious problem in our society, and, as you all know, I take these issues head on. Also at my haven, Poets United. Amy

The Practice

There’s an old warehouse downtown
where they meet in secret
Sneaking down alleyways alone or in pairs
through the backdoor of an old meat-packing plant

It’s quiet; it’s remote; no one will discover them there
as they open drawers full of potions
creams and lotions and pallored paint
They pull robes and silky clothes from rusty hangers

Readying themselves for the ritual
Preening with great care as giant hooks swing over their heads
remnants of the enterprise this building once housed
Hideously masked, garishly garbed, in hats with small bells

They frolic as they practice their ancient art
Every movement coordinated, they caper and careen
The thought of their doings makes my blood run cold, even now
Grown men in clown suits, rehearsing a new routine

© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil