These things happened:
rain fell on my living room floor.
The plaster ceiling sagged, preparing to drop.
After the roof-men scraped off the tar,
a steady stream of pebbles ran down my windows.
So, back to the office to write.
From the wall-grid above my desk:
a deluge of last summer’s insects—
bluebottles, crumbly moths.
The consuming question is:
how much destruction to my person will ensue
from things falling from a great height?
The problem is larger than hail, say,
or the risky dodging below a flock of birds,
or water bomb terror in front of hotels.
I means autumn leaves cause me to flinch,
I examine passing people for their crush potential,
panic under the train trestle.
Fluorescent lights swoop to kill.
Tunnels are grave sites. Exposed beams—Christ!
Chicken Little receives my prayers.
So, I’ve affected a helmet. My shield is on
commission with the Dept. of Art, & the only place
I’m really safe is airplanes, because I’m
not going to come down.
I’m not ever going to come down.