Up on an old ladder,
When the slow motion reality struck,
The ladder was doing the splits,
I rode it down, fearing my tender ankle,
Struck the cement floor with a million thoughts pouring through me,
The loudest being the sound of my wrist.
Pain is a sweet word for 'hurts like hell',
cast up to my shoulder,
Though my ankle survived un scratched.
And the thought of HOW am I going to open my onine shop...
And help Sacha unpack,
And take photos of the upcoming wedding,
And realizing the impact of wall papering at midnight on a ladder.
A change of plans definite, a change of clothes interesting, sleep impossible.
Typing with one hand slow going.