a poet of undetermined vintage sums up, more or less
by @wk-kortas
(for ed hart)
well, you fell out of a tree
(beguiling, bewitching, the tips of the branches
long fingers gesturing to you, whispering
listen, kid, i got a secret to tell you.)
and, boom, that was the first time your collarbone got busted up.
maybe later you were just daydreaming, or, more likely,
drunk on some boone’s farm or some girl,
anyway at some point you decided *goddamn it,
i’m just not falling anymore,*
but there was always some cracked pavement
or some tree root hidden by a patch of grass
you missed with the mower,
a million sundry distractions besides,
and one day don’t you just know
that you stuck your hand down to catch yourself
(of course, you knew how damn stupid that was
the moment you reached earthward,
but the die already cast and all that nonsense)
and, bam, there’s a wrist, snapped like dry kindling.
well, maybe, if your’re lucky enough
and the right angels are looking out for you,
you live long enough to figure out that you’re gonna fall,
and the trick is to hit and roll on your good shoulder.