The Carnival Juggler

There is a song

that is singing in my head.

A high pitched medoldy of trust and distrust,

oranges strewn around the ground like flattened tomatoes.

Your crooked finger picks one up, places it in your palm, balancing it there for a few seconds.

And then a few seconds more.

Look, you tell your orchestrated guests.

Look.

Dreams are made of these.

You purse the meaty redness in your hands and throw it back into your throat.

The only way to digest a dream is to eat it, you say.

Yes! It is an ugly sight, you say,

some of the most beautiful things are.

You wash your hands in the running waters of the adjacent stream.

The pitch beings again, this time an octave higher.

This is what I have been trained to do, you say,

and now you have as well.

Time to eat! You tell us.

It only takes one tomotoe to be whole.