I stand on a tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind sees 360 degrees:
Is the wire swaying? Am I more than halfway?
The crowd is silent. Should I achieve unscathed the distant edge
they'll applaud but for the most part they await
some say court my disaster
that I should fall and with no safety net:
for this walk too I was dared to perform by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line herself
all while gleeful and participant in the glitz
the glimmer of this media driven spectacle.
A yawn from the nosebleed settles upon silence
my soft feet lift glide inches at a time
eyes glued to the goal despite the catcalls:
I am a juggler
all at once dealing with seven tossed balls of circus glory.
The platform now looms near
my mind turns to the philosophy of distance,
how it changes moment to moment
relative to the pace of the swish between my legs.
Mind and eye become one
and baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.
My right foot clears the cedar wood's platform edge:
I first hear a solitary clap and then a cacophony of applause
the rhythm to which I declare my living pulse.