I fall off. I fall off like a bus that won’t run on the ridge or stay in the lane. I’m driving
down into the river as if there aren’t enough roads left. I fall out like jail, like I’m tired.
Like I don’t want those clothes anyway, so it’s best to go commando till I can take
another town. I no longer care how warm or wide your hands are. Keep them. I’m a
world that really seeks a solid floor, not one more rigged election. Or I’m a ladder rising
up wrong, rung by rung. But if you make it as far as the matinee, come in, and you’ll
catch me wearing myself again after all. Surprise.