Base

The standing rod had wilted a bit

Slid down accordion soft:

an old sock without enough elastic

on an atrophied leg.

Luckily, she carried a screwdriver-

    tiny and gleaming-

and got to work tightening.

She patched and tweaked

screwed and propped

until the rod was once again

tall and in place.

Running the length of her body,

the base, the sway of a small back

rising softly, through the top of a head.

The girl stood and watched leaves

fall on a freezing morning

And knew,

with certainty,

that she would not.

She collapsed the rod and placed it back in its carrying case.

She would no longer be needing it.