There is a small imp that assists misfortunes.
Not the huge disasters that shatter lives.
Stubbed toes. hurtful words, popped balloons.
My supposed peace with my own unavoidable aging,
is no more than a spidery thread of inattention.
Living some other moment, I fail to gage my step.
The Imp ever watchful lifts the curb so slightly.
I see him out of the corner of my blurring eye
but never the less I fall, anything but lightly
As I am laying on the warm but very hard macadam,
I assess the damage that has been done to my body.
Was it me or the Imp who did this? I want at him.
With cuts and scrapes galore, I rise to shaky feet.
There is a wide and quite deep wound to my dignity.
I search for the Imp but he is gone like he never was.