Arms out in a T-shape, I walk stable as hell across a tight rope;
I should have mastered this prance,
but today eleven years later,
after a full thirty days of getting back on and sliding right off,
I could jog across the thin line barefoot, if I wanted.
I could skip, prance, chasse, leap,
for I am stable again.
A pocket of fear floats by,
warning me that on any given day I could be flat on the ground,
I look at the pocket and smile,
nodding, laughing, thinking,
yeah but it’s today
I’m steadier than a phlebotomist’s hand drawing blood from a tiny vein.