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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