"Is There An Acrobat in The House?"

Do acrobats make love like the rest
of us, graceless and fumbling, so
slavishly obeying the laws of physics?
Do they stumble and stammer, mistime
and misjudge, powerless against
gravity's stubborn pull?

Or do they revel in their flexibility,
journey to the center of their fingertip
balance, warm to the possibility of carnal
invention, the room a web of safety
nets and tension wire, a unicycle and
pole in the corner should the mood strike?

Do they tumble about the house as
a matter of course, swinging from the ceiling,
springing from chair to couch and back again
for the sake of the trick, neighbors peering
in through the front window like its a Sunday
matinee, steaming the glass, waiting on the
next set of thrills?

Do acrobats exist out of context, only
seen when upside down and above a crowd?
Are they mere civilians with a greater sense
of danger, a higher threshold for pain? And
when the theatre lights dim and the man
two rows over has a heart attack, does anyone
ever shout, "Is there an acrobat in the house?"