Classic Poem

Jugglers keep six bottles in the air.
Club swingers toss up six and eight.
The knife throwers miss each other's
ears by a hair and the steel quivers
in the target wood.
The trapeze battlers do a back-and-forth
high in the air with a girl's feet
and ankles upside down.
So they earn a living — till they miss
once, twice, even three times.
So they live on hate and love as gypsies
live in satin skins and shiny eyes.
In their graves do the elbows jostle once
in a blue moon — and wriggle to throw
a kiss answering a dreamed-of applause?
Do the bones repeat: It's a good act —
we got a good hand . . . ?