#twins - Hello Poetry

Under their mother's table the twins rehearse their entrance. Two small acrobats in striped pajamas, crossing the carpet wire with the concentration of old tightrope families. I sit in the armchair like a retired ringmaster, knees full of weather, pockets rattling with raisins, trying to keep the show moving between supper and sleep. One climbs me as if I were circus scaffolding. The other studies my face like a clown learning makeup — checking where the smile begins, where it slips. At sixteen months they already understand timing. The delayed laugh. The dramatic fall. The ancient art of throwing porridge to the dogs and waiting for applause. Their voices arrive in bursts: half trumpet, half calliope steam-organ, echoing through the house that had almost become too orderly. Every room tumbled through. Wooden animals underfoot. Tiny socks hanging from radiator rails like abandoned trapezes. I watch them stagger forward with both hands raised — little daredevils crossing the dangerous distance between sofa and chair. And every crossing is treated as history. Bravo from the grandfather. Bravo from the lamp light. Bravo from the old clock keeping time above the ring. Sometimes, late evening, when they finally sleep side by side in safety nets of blankets, the silence feels enormous. Like the tent after the audience has gone home. I stand there a while among the stuffed bears and overturned books, smelling milk, soap, warm dust. The old circus closing down for one more night. And me — coat over my shoulders, sweeping the ring slowly, hoping the troupe returns tomorrow.

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May 10

May 10, 2026 at 3:14 PM UTC

AbsenceEngineer

Hoping the Troupe Returns

Under their mother's table the twins rehearse their entrance. Two small acrobats in striped pajamas, crossing the carpet wire with the concentration of old tightrope families. I sit in the armchair like a retired ringmaster, knees full of weather, pockets rattling with raisins, trying to keep the show moving between supper and sleep. One climbs me as if I were circus scaffolding. The other studies my face like a clown learning makeup — checking where the smile begins, where it slips. At sixteen months they already understand timing. The delayed laugh. The dramatic fall. The ancient art of throwing porridge to the dogs and waiting for applause. Their voices arrive in bursts: half trumpet, half calliope steam-organ, echoing through the house that had almost become too orderly. Every room tumbled through. Wooden animals underfoot. Tiny socks hanging from radiator rails like abandoned trapezes. I watch them stagger forward with both hands raised — little daredevils crossing the dangerous distance between sofa and chair. And every crossing is treated as history. Bravo from the grandfather. Bravo from the lamp light. Bravo from the old clock keeping time above the ring. Sometimes, late evening, when they finally sleep side by side in safety nets of blankets, the silence feels enormous. Like the tent after the audience has gone home. I stand there a while among the stuffed bears and overturned books, smelling milk, soap, warm dust. The old circus closing down for one more night. And me — coat over my shoulders, sweeping the ring slowly, hoping the troupe returns tomorrow.