The Juggler

When he tells you his name he stutters.When he tells you about serving three years

for drugs he stutters. When he tells youhis dad forbade him to star in the play

and that’s what led to the boredom and cokeand that’s what led to the first car

he stole he stutters. It’s there whenhe says where he sleeps. When he tugs

on a blunt and doesn’t talk at allit’s still there. But when he unzips

his bag on the busy corner and unpacksthe gas and torches, belting out a call

to draw the already gathering crowd,almost screaming over the tired moan

of rush hour traffic, promising fireand knives and hula-hoops and magic,

his voice comes out clear. Smooth.Travels to the passing ears like wheels

greased and loaded with the elusiveweight of words. Perfect Rs. Perfect Ts.

As if we could sing what we can’t say.Catch what we can never hold. Now

the ring of the crowd tightens for the show.Collectively hushes as the necks

tilt back and the first blazing torchspins into the sky’s dark throat.