Running down stairs,
I slip on ice.
I'm not really running
down stairs at all.
I'm running down ice.
I land with a hard whack
against the earth.
But it's not earth.
it's hardness, sharpness.
You're anxious but you
navigate the stairs carefully.
Not stairs actually.
You're descending into
my carelessness
and you don't want it
to rub off.
"You okay?" you ask.
No, you don't ask,
you pray to the God
of questions marks.
"Fine," I say.
It's not how I feel.
Just a word to appease
your God,
who's been known
to damn the foolish
and embarrassed
to some laughing hell.
You help me to my feet.
No, not my feet,
my previous standing.