Toward the Ground

The train lurched and her coat

flared outward — a sail

filling with wrong wind —

and for half a second she was almost

horizontal, knuckles white

on the pole, fluorescent light

catching the angle of her body

before it was a body again,

upright, corrected,

staring forward at nothing.

Nobody looked.

We have an agreement about this,

all of us, standing or seated:

we do not acknowledge

the negotiation.

The constant pulling-down

that we answer

with locked knees and rigid spines

and this exhausting

pretense of ease.

I watched her smooth her coat.

She tucked her hair behind one ear.

The train moved on.

Walking home I took the stairs

and felt it — a thickness

in the knees, a drag

that wasn't there five years ago.

Each step a small concession

to the thing beneath the floor,

beneath the platform,

beneath every surface we stand on

and call solid.

We are all falling.

The difference is speed.

The young fall so slowly

they believe they're rising.

The rest of us

feel the angle steepen

and grip whatever pole

is nearest

and stare ahead

as though we chose

to be this close

to the ground.