I’ve challenged them since childhood, choosing them
over sidewalks, balancing myself like
a tightrope walker, my feet in tandem,
partners keeping me on course as I psych
myself into performance: now forward,
now back, now pause, now kneel in reverence,
now spring in air with legs split while I guard
against sprains by landing light as Martins
on my toes. I do this only on streets
with speeding traffic—cars roaring lions,
trucks rumbling elephants, bicycles fleet
and wind-silent cheetahs—all their millions
of claws swiping at me as they sweep past.
Some voice utters, The next gutter’s your last.
Roger Armbrust
May 15, 2009
