Yesterday I fell on the sidewalk.

The breath was knocked out of me.

It’s the third time since moving here.

The sidewalks are terrible, and I was looking at a dogwood’s

Perfect stars.

There was no one around to rescue me.

I didn’t have the phone I’ve stopped carrying.

Walking home I thought of my boomer pals.

Him with his patterned days laid out.

Her with the new game preserve.

They think not falling is the way.

My tongue feels around a chipped tooth.

I don’t think that.


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