One more failing, another fall,
again a wet gray splush and masking
of his red-burnished face in the mud,
then drawing himself back up
to his diminutive height, the burn
as real as ever but not so severe
as the first time, the first 1,000 times.
Even a vase falls if someone bats it
off the shelf, and no vase even once
got up again after it met gravity’s
ultimate plane. When you’ve crashed
so many times, what’s one more?
Lately, though, the falls take so long
to consummate, then require
so much effort to climb back,
he just wanted them to end.
It would be so easy. Just lie there
in shards of failure, let them tread upon
them until you’re the forgotten dust
within the empty center of
the welcome mat’s O. Maybe
next time. You think of these things
as once more you pass between
Floors 145 and 56.