What It’s Like

Like coming home each day
to a house with no floor, 
just a drop when I
walk through the door;
like endlessly wondering

how far I’ll fall as it differs
from day to day.  Some days,
there’s barely an inch of air
between me and solid ground;
other days, I don’t think
I’ll ever land.  Either way
I fall through fog and can’t see
the bottom before I strike it
and I’m jelly when I strike it.
It’s like that, this life of mine,

and I dread it unless
you’re there to seize my hand,
unless I see you, bright spot
in the fog; then the fall’s
more like floating,
and the landing is still hard
but it’s not as hard as landing
alone.