Pitch and Roll

The kid in the apron is tapping his pen

while I’m searching for hardware again and again.

I’m up on the ladder, the third metal rung,

with a copper-zinc taste on the back of my tongue.

The concrete is shifting, a gray, heavy tide,

and there isn't a place for a coward to hide.

The shelves are all leaning, the fluorescent light

is humming a warning that doesn't feel right.

I’m gripping the yellow-paint rail of the stand

and feel it start shaking beneath my own hand.

The world is a pendulum, swinging too wide,

and I’m stuck on the arc of a terrible ride.