27½

…the sound of jangle-bells and children wailing… lambs to slaughter… enough to send a man to his grave. Corked, steadying himself against the Waymart clock tower, the town fool counts his blessings (the sisters having taught him well with the back of the hand) the sky whizzing round his ears. In the next township lives a town fool, kin to a fools’ fool. The man in the hat, hereby nearby, watched the fool balance a jack on his nose, the crowd gleeful with delight. On the other side of the street, barefoot, the fools’ fool juggled three yellow balls, a small crowd of people jeering him on. ‘…more, you fool, give us more…!’ His eyes crowding, the old fool let go with a sigh. When he tired of juggling, which he did without regret, the old fool began bouncing pebbles off the pip of his nose, the crowd letting go with a fucking amazing fool! Sitting beneath a cowslip of blue sky the man in the hat counted his blessings, 27 hats three pairs of Oxford’s and yellow rubbed cob. ‘…were I a betting man…’ he mused, ‘…I’d bet on the fool to win …’. With the nighttime sky nearing the end of its tether the two fools packed up and hightailed it, the man in the hat falling back to sleep.