by Steve Klepetar

I taught myself to juggle
invisible balls,
found them one day in the loose

folds of my sleeves
when I reached up to scratch
an elbow with a healing scrape.

From the first, I loved
the feel of them,
tactile red and blue, touch

of purple at my fingertips, scents
of orange and green,
how they floated in air above my head.

My fingers loved them,
and my hands,
their roundness smooth and cool

as the river’s skin.
First two balls, then three,
and soon I could roll a dozen

up my arms, flip them
high, catch them with
my mouth one by one, spitting

each into my waiting grasp.
My audience grew, and I pulled
invisible chainsaws from their ears,

firebrands, pistols that twirled
and fired invisible
bullets into targets only I could see.

Girls tossed invisible coins
which flew at me, landing lightly on
my cheeks, my lips parted in an invisible smile.

PHOTO: The author demonstrating his skill.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared widely. His poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto and The Li Bo Poems, both from Flutter Press, and Family Reunion, forthcoming from Big Table Publishing. He regularly juggles invisible objects for his granddaughters.