At skyscraper’ edge
I can see clean to the spot
of sidewalk where I stood
looking up.
Clean back to the place
I was born.
I think of the balance
of the tightrope
walker, adjusting for the
wind. Now, here it is.
I’m tired of walking
on eggshells. Such a worn
out phrase. Like the phrase
worn out. But I perched
on pristine shell a few
years ago. Afraid to speak
and afraid to offend.
This may be tenuous,
but I’m tired of people
pleasing and saying yes.
I’m not going to offend
for a pastime.
Never on purpose.
What I’m talking about
is liberty to be without
straining each word
and thought like a fine
soup, served flaccid
by the time it arrives.
