Four Feet of Clearance

The ladder gave way by a half-inch slide,

a heart-stopping lurch toward the garage floor.

I’m up here now, where the spiders hide

behind a warped and plywood door.

It smells of pink insulation and heat,

of boxes labeled in a hand I’ve outgrown.

I’m balancing weight on the balls of my feet,

feeling remarkably, stupidly alone.

I stepped on a bulb from a Christmas past,

a red glass ornament, brittle and thin.

The silver is flaking, failing at last,

peeling away like a layer of skin.