A ladder stands in our living room,
Its aluminum legs spread-eagled,
blue plastic top step a parallel plane
to our floor, our ceiling, our lawn.
We’ve no other place to store it,
So it’s taken up sulking residence
Between the book shelf and the sofa,
The tallest member of the family,
And with by far the finest posture.
We suppose we’ll have to let it stay,
For we’ll certainly need it some day
As we stretch our anxious arms
Toward the waiting, textured sky.
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