Juggling

Get a call from my a dear friend today as I am walking to the train station right after workshop with the wonderful senior citizens. When he asks how I am doing, I think of the never ending to do list lodged inside my cerebrum, the joyful checking off of things. In fact, I am headed home to finish layout for the next edition of the student newspaper I generate with 15 kids in the Bronx, an undertaking that devoured my weekend whole. I think of the stack of poems to critique in time for my Juilliard students tomorrow.

To his question I can only respond with: juggling, love, juggling.

Moments later I am underground waiting for the next train, the first of three to whisk me home. Something grabs the corner of my eye and I glance. And right beside me is a man in the blue overalls of an auto mechanic, three initials stitched into the patch on his chest, his neck and knuckles tattooed like an ex gang member.

One red, one white and one blue, ADF gracefully juggles three balls.