Photo by 5arah | pixabay.com | CC0 Creative Commons

The Juggler

The rise and fall of pins and knives, 
a blur of flame and delighted gasps.
We sat on edge unable to say 
where right left off and left began.
All was one: a movement of 
magical mischief. I wished I had
the ambidexterity:
to juggle four things at once, to keep 
the plates spinning, the hands working 
together. These days it seems
nothing works well anymore.
We play at our games and ignore — 
treating the other with contempt: 
one hand not knowing the path of its twin.


To support the poet’s benign coffee addiction: Coffee.

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