That the functions of my body
might turn against me!
Leave me,
fetal clutched,
buried in bed.
At the bottom of every breath
hides a trap
ready to trip,
to wrap
its iron claws
tight-round my lungs.
When every step I try
is a shaky-tight-rope-wabble,
one small step for a man
and maybe his next.

We are fearfully and wonderfully made,
balanced on a pin head.
But.
inevitable,
unexpected
comes these moments,
when a fickle center of gravity
shifts
and our whole whirling world
spins,
out of our
alleged
control.