As a young waitress
long ago
I learned to balance a full tray
on one hand.
Long ago.
As all the young, I was
Confident
I had what I needed
to carry me through—
with enough practice and my own two hands.
Only decades later
I discover that this permanent wave
of wobbliness
Is normal
Is how it should be.
Our actual trays (I’ve come to see)
are not round and can never be
Steady for long—our trays have lovers and globes,
children and work and art and take out the
trash and call your friend and walk the dog
and eat delicious food—and there is
an eternal fork or wine goblet precariously tilted
at the edge of balance
and oh always shifting
Balance is a wave.
We help each other, reaching for the
fork before it clangs to the floor,
the goblet before it shatters and spills the wine
Puff Of Smoke Poems 
Yes yes yes. I needed reading this too. And this is why two or three are more able than one (even while one is being one). Pockets, yea pockets. Thanks for writing this.