Jacket on, my fingers
reach
for the latch
which leads me
to the other side of the door
which would take me outside.
Its arrival is always
sudden,
sometimes a surprise, yet
routine as the seasons,
pumping through my veins like
a sullen child dragging me back, like
a whining child unwilling
to go outside.
Out loud, I say
you can do this,
it's just laziness,
but the tainted blood
shoots
needles
through my heart.
I call myself a coward,
recall the feats of my youth,
the heights attained,
the dangers faced and erased, yet
my feet refuse to move and
my hand is stayed inches
from the door.
I say to myself, I can do this
can't I?
Silence but for the hard beat of my heart.
I repeat:
Can I do this today?
No, yet
I trip over the reply, doubting
my level of intent, feeling shame, even
as the shudders wither my brain - even
as the room sways.
I need milk and a dozen other things. Please
let me do this today.
No. The reply comes from deep inside.
No no no.
I back away,
back to safety,
back to my lair,
my table,
my chair.
Defeated, I glare at the cars passing by
beneath the grey horizon.
Milk, vegetables and eggs
will wait another day.
©Jane Paterson Basil
Making it write 