The Juggler's Assistant

The Juggler sits silent

In his dimly lighted camp,

Stone-faced solemn, peacefully

Folding a faded dollar bill.

Carefully creasing the origami:

Flying swan,

Neck extended,

Wings begin flapping,

He takes off in flight

Into tomorrow.

His mind soars easily,

Gliding over all the depth

Of his great people knowledge.

Experience takes him, alert,

Over the deep,

Where faces shine up to him

Out of the multitudes.

He translates their eyes

And their body language,

And begins to organize them

Into the files of his philosophies:

“This one is that type.”

That one another.”

But something stirs tonight

In the swirling flames

Embedded in his prophetic DNA.

It feeds off the gypsy deep within.

The leaves in the bottom of his cup align

In a mirrored pattern

To those he’s swallowed down into his soul.

The universe is brewing

Something wonderful for him;

He feels it pulling the shavings, even,

Divinely arranging his iron rich blood

And his destiny.

Three swans folded;

Three shows at tomorrow’s fair;

He will scan the shallows again,

Yearning for the deep,

Searching among the waders

For those eyes that also long for depth,

The true bohemian psyche that

He will be completely unable

To categorize.

Three tokens of kind appreciation—

For three lucky ones

Chosen out from the audience—

Each swan is folded in the hopes,

That offered to the One,

Will be the best saved for last.

-jenn long