If I were clairvoyant
I wouldn’t have to peek
and my pancakes
would all be perfectly browned
without one edge curling
bent out shape
with my indecision.
But it isn’t my fault
for it is God
who messed with my head
tossing and turning
my hair as I slept
checking to see
if I was perfectly
done.
Walk with a mirror
under your nose
and mushroom lights
jump up to divert you
until your feet
find the vacuum
of space and you suddenly
are afraid of the abyss
made above the stairs
and you have to peek
just to be sure
that it’s alright
to step up
when you know
you could fall
into the fathoms below
but it’s better than
the other childhood game
that lava melted your feet
until laughter succumbed you
both safe on the couch.
But it just isn’t the same
when you are alone and forty.