I stand here on the tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind revolves in 360 degrees
measuring my distance to the platform
simultaneously looking back:
did I shake the wire? Am I more than halfway?
The crowd is silent. Should I arrive unscathed at the distant edge
they'll applaud my efforts but they are for the most part waiting
(some say courting) disaster,
that I should fall this time with no safety net:
for this walk was a dare by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line themselves
while also gleeful and participant in the glitz
the glimmer of this spectacle in a media driven life.
I can hear someone yawn from up in the rafters,
someone too cheap or too poor to pay full price.
My feet softly lift and glide forward
my eyes remain glued on the goal despite the catcalls:
my mind a juggler
looking at seven tossed balls of circus glory all at once
all while I wonder, are they tired of me or just worn out from work?
For many it seems my dance at sometime
became the only thing they've been waiting for all week,
as if the sweat boiling on my brow, the great heights,
and the tension in the air
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.
The platform now looms near
and my mind turns to the philosophy of distance
how it changes from moment to moment
in relation to the pace of my legs swishing back and forth.
Mind and eye become one body
baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.
First I hear a solitary clap, and then a cacophony of applause
at the moment my right foot clears the cedar wood's platform edge
where I declare both my living pulse and the success of the venture.