And I know I will 

die. It could be now. How
will I lift this foot?
And I don’t, and I do. 

Stairs to an elevated pedestrian
bridge over nine lanes
of highway. The linking flight 

between two floors
within an office, a red
ladder against that brick 

wall.  A green one
in a park that’s crumbling
faster than I can reach 

the landing—any one over
water or a creek’s dry
well. I’ll never be 

a man on a wire,
a woman ready
to run for help 

when he falls.
It’s a healthy one—this fear.