The Predicament


In certain predicament,
I sit on the pouff,
in a haste. It moves.
I fall flat.

Gather myself, straighten.
Walk in a pace. I stumble.
The right leg stretches.
I am hurt.

Pull myself together,
“Careful” I tell myself.
I climb down the steps.
Something trips. I fly.

Wish I could remain in one place.
Never I could be. A caution,
perhaps.  Significant,
I catch the point.

“Stay where you are”.A voice from behind.

Might be my mother’s,  long, long ago.

 

 

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