At Top of the Staircase
Morning snow made the dogwood
shiver outside the leaded windows.
I could feel a wobble under the day,
& my Saturday-night head woozy
as my right foot tremble-danced
a fandango at top of the staircase.
Everything stopped, a laugh bitten
in half. Now, get to the first floor,
I said. Please don’t fall. How many
times I praised my hands if a cup
or glass slipped from my fingers
I caught in midair? Walking yes &
no, I stumbled down the stairs as if
to hereafter, coaxing my right foot
along the carpet. I rose on my toes,
a shaky grip, slid back the top bolt.
I bent low at the waist, my head
pleading to the hard shiny oak floor
as fingers worked the bottom bolt,
& I then turned the brass doorknob.
Larry, man? Sirens & oxygen mask,
my head’s a wintry moon up there
clinging to some black transformer
but can still see a boy dancing wildly,
calling to all the names I’ve known.
