it was a strange pretense
one we don’t often indulge in
it’s not, I think, that we are morbid
we simply recognize the odds
the world arrays its traps and weapons
sets them at every hand
and we walk through the maze
daring them
to spring
to fire
to launch themselves
or simply to catch and hold a foot
so that we fall
into some awkward space
that does not allow our rising easily
our questing foot
slides the door closed
the latch falls into place
and not the most darling of our dreams
comes by to comfort us or lend a hand
despite the possibility of that
or of fates just as anonymous
today we talked as if we had tomorrows
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