by Bill Yarrow
I'm decades in and it hasn't gone away.
In all other respects, I am normal. Life
is hard, but I'm not complaining. The thing
is, I am in a constant state of falling. I say
something and I fall through my words. I eat
something and I fall through my food. I step
on the accelerator and I fall right through
the road. I hardly sleep. Dreams are literally
pitfalls. On my last birthday, I was given
a harness. To trick my mind into thinking
I was tied to something. I hooked it to the
radiator and ventured out the door. The straps
broke and I went sprawling. That descent still
hasn't ended, but how long can one truly fall?
All rights reserved.
This poem was first published in Prick of the Spindle.
Thank you, Cynthia Reeser.
This poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX 2012).