Tipping

Catch it up front
Split-second eye contact
So much stuffed
In two tiny orbs

True person comes through
Reacts to you
Slips through your fingers
Becomes someone else

Ditches of pain
Little space in-between
Breath held for days
False smile of survival

Flatfooted shuffles
Worn floor of a myth
Starts pulling answers
From a black hat

On the brink
Fragile to breakable
Feel for small shards
In cracks between floorboards

Susan Dashiell is a middle school teacher living in Bloomfield, NJ who enjoys collaging and writing during quiet moments. I appreciate the opportunity to share this poem with you and thank you for creating space for late in life writers.