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.