Tightrope
From below, from the bleachers
it seems like a
matter of balance
as if my foot
might wobble and
I would pitch to
the right or left
and fall to a
chorus of their gasps
and groans, not
on them, to quiet
them, but to
that damn safety net
the powers-that-be
make me use.
But it’s not
balance or imbalance
or breathing or
some odd trick of
timing and
tension; it’s a natural
response to
desire and necessity,
a comfortable
fit to circumstances.
I look straight
ahead and walk on,
sometimes I use
a pole to make
it seem more
difficult, other times
I use the comic
umbrella, or just
my arms are
spread out like wings.
I know I could
step off and keep on
going, keep
walking on all the wires
stretched from
here to over there
to over there,
the ones I see now,
the ones I dream
about all day
when I have to
walk down there
with them, like
them looking up,
ready to be
amazed, inspired.
I could step off
and keep on going,
the wires are
there for me, out across
the big top, out
the gate, the sounds
of people, their
ohs and ahs as I walk
past parking lots
and busy highways,
thirty feet up,
over fields and towns.
Headline news,
the lead story at six
and eleven, I’d
be the very stuff of
twitter and
tweets, of texts and tunes,
of so much
gossip and glory.
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