Jugglers, as you can imagine,
are great fun to be with.
Mine is.
Alert and ambidextrous,
rarely dropping an aitch or missing a trick,
head in the air, clear-eyed and smiling,
I’m mad for him.
No couch potato he.
After a hard day in the busy town square
he comes home to prepare supper.
Under the spotlight in the kitchen
he works the vegetables, eight at a time.
Spins plates, tosses pans.
In orbit, knives hiss with pleasure.
In the bathroom, ducks and deodorants
spring to life in his hands.
Loofahs loop-the-loop. A Ferris Wheel
of shower-caps and shampoo bottles.
Flannels paraglide, soaps and sponges
dance a perfumed fandango.
I would die for him.
He will be the perfect father, I know it.
In the maternity ward he arrived,
laden with champagne and flowers.
Matron gasped, midwives giggled,
other mothers marvelled as the newlyborn
went spinning through the air like startled planets:
Mars, Mercury, Jupiter. Our triplets.
My divine juggler.