He used to juggle spoons and knives. From when he was a boy
it was the one thing in his life that Howard could enjoy;
for all the rest he didn't care, for all the rest he'd shrug;
to him the spoons and knives were gods, and juggling was his drug.
From crack of dawn he'd juggle them, the spoons and then the knives;
he'd fling them up into the air in threes and fours and fives;
then just before they reached their peak, he'd summersault and clap,
then catch them all before they fell. He made it look a snap.
A dropped knife chopped his nose one day, and then his right ear too;
we wondered what was wrong with him, and if his end was due;
we asked him if he felt all right; his answer was a nod
that caused his other ear to fall. We found this rather odd.
His face had quickly come apart, its pieces on the floor;
we picked them up and kept them safe within a kitchen drawer;
together with the spoons and knives we now have ears and eyes
reminding us of Howard's life and of his sad demise.