D. A. Prince: The Lofty Heights

The Matterhorn and Everest: if I could
I’d get the Kendal Mint Cake, crampons, rope
and woolly hat. However, I’m no good —
no head for icy heights, or drops. No hope.

Flying at thirty-thousand feet, my mind
demands distraction. Thinking about height
and all the air beneath us is, I find,
only a way to amplify my plight.

Ladders for awkward jobs around the house:
no, not for me. Gutters can keep their leaves,
spiders their webs, the loft its scrabbling mouse,
and wasps their papery nests under the eaves.

Glass ceilings? up above the air looks cold;
below, the jostling for promotion’s space
means bumped heads, bruises, envy. All fool’s gold.
My feet stay on the ground. I know my place.