Tight rope walking
is an art that my man
has perfected.
He sweats only inside
as he risks the fall
in bringing my morning coffee.
No net.
Still he smiles as though
this particular rope
is a lifeline.
A tether?
He could never be
The Boy With The Hair.
No;
My Man Is No Boy.
He dares greatly
clutching a quivering
cup of lifeblood.
One foot placed carefully
In front of the other
50 feet above
the DMZ each morning
Into enemy territory.
Into me.
The bravest Man I’ve known
is a performer in a circus
where the perks are
landmines
languish
and breakfast with
The Bearded Lady.
