it’s happened before, but sooner this time.
i’m twangy as a country song,
a loose woman, swaggering through honky-tonk joints:

the bottom stair feels rickety in my stupor;
the phone falls, hits my shoe,
and two-steps across the wood floor;
a plate drops from my hand,
its contents sprawl drunkenly in my lap.

everything slips away now, except the one
thing, deep in my soul, that remains closed up,
locked away in a purse of thick leather.
i’m getting ready to let it go too, when the time comes;
perhaps with all this practice it will be easy.