Stairs

If falling down stairs in a terry robe
were not enough, the kimono sleeve
snagged on a doorknob and I kissed
the wall. There, the confession. And if,
by some misplaced foot, I stab
my uvula with a spoon or splinter a tooth
with a bowl of pumpkin soup, velvet
and thin, you can be assured
that this public display of ineptitude,
blue as a Dutch windmill,
is little more than avarice, a desire
to embrace myself faulty — to laugh
at my own uncertain gait.

Image: Riccardo Pelati on Unsplash

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