The robust Seattle unicyclist
circles the International Fountain
in a wide arc, as if he were
lassoing the moon
with his wobbly trajectory.
Carefully ascending and propelling
himself forward on the narrow, wet curb,
he is the poster boy for perseverance.
Making tea in the farmhouse kitchen,
I ask one of the residents
what she’s working on.
“This morning I was writing poetry
but I’m here to work on my dissertation.”
I encourage the heavy teabag
to steep, bobbing it up and down,
and ask, absentmindedly,
“Oh, really, what’s your dissertation on?”
(Assuming literature or psychology.)
“Planetary consciousness. Of all the species
that exist, humans are the only ones that
have an imagination. I think our imaginations
have an collective affect on what occurs on our planet.”
I always eat Indian food with hesitation
as if a Hindu goddess will emerge from
beneath the curry and attack with her
several arms and legs.
My friend tells me that humans aren’t built
for happiness as she sips a dry, red wine.
Returning to the robust unicyclist:
he makes one last pass
caressing the circumference
of the concrete fountain
then leaves my field of vision.
This is what love is:
while balancing on one wheel.