Sometimes
Sometimes, I juggle.
I juggle my responsibilities,
I juggle my feelings and emotions,
I juggle every cold morning and dark circle under my eyes,
I juggle the people I want to spend every living moment with,
I juggle everything I ever want to accomplish,
I juggle my bad days,
And most of all,
I juggle time.
But sometimes, I juggle,
Not with the spears under my bed,
Or the swords behind open doorways,
But with fabric juggling balls.
I toss each of them from palm to palm,
As I sit on my kitchen floor in shorts and a t-shirt;
I juggle,
And my reflection watches me.
As I continue, every so often I lose my grip,
One piece of fabric thuds against another,
And I sigh,
And I pick it up again.
Sometimes, I juggle,
And my dog trots in to watch me,
His lolloping tongue poised,
Twinkling eyes following each ball,
Ears pricked.
Sometimes, I juggle,
And we end up curled up on the tiles together,
Me prodding one fabric juggling ball sleepily,
The soft heat of my body warms the floor.
Sometimes, I juggle.