Face down on my stomach,
the cat in me can’t help but stare over the ledge,
my head a boulder hanging over,
sticking my neck out like a rope.
My fingers dangle over an edge of brittle ground,
the place where consequences balance,
where I might withdraw to solid ground,
where I might slip upside down,
and the coins spill from my pockets
in a free‐fall, sunlit, spinning ballet
to the whitewater fountain far below.
Reason is gone; the breaking point straddles
footprints and the deep descent to the river.
Courage too has no hand in this push and pull.
Only curiosity and fear tug at the brink.
I could hold my head up and turn back home,
or drop it and tip into dive.
It would take a long time down
to dying. I would have eternity
to change my mind.
● ● ●
