The Wooden Staircase

I am standing here, watching this moment from behind a willowly tree. You're climbing, high and higher, and tumbling down with an 'ooophf!' and rolling over to get back on again. High and higher. You want that last branch, you want to swing your leg over and keep a godly view over the park.

Godly, because, like God, you seem up there and we down here and not intervening. But you are intervening, you're 'ooophf-ing' down onto mounds of leaves and climbing back up. God doesn't shake the crunchy buildings below. He stays in his branch, making clouds from his cigarette smoke. Which is sort of like you, too. You're halfway up, you've fumbled with the lighter. It slips from tongue licked fingers - for grip, I think. You swear. Guess it's not going to be overcast today.

You look up. Fiddle with your cap, sunlight in your eyes. Swing, pull. So you're up one more. Your sneakers on the bark seems slippery. Slide, slide, slide, like your feet trying to go up the down escalator. Don't go very far, but your hands are strong. Heave. One more down, or is it up? You spit. Are the masses fleeing a tsunami, or just a freak downpour?

You look down. I'm fairly certain you didn't realise the miles and miles and miles between your throne and 'ooophf'. You seem unperturbed. How courageous. You pull your hand back. You don't really like spiders, all fangs and legs and it seems they got you with a pitchfork, didn't they? You're shaking your hand. What a nasty web of surprise! You're really looking down. A foot slides towards the lower branch, stretching you out wide. Reaching for the ground. So big and wide.

There's another branch, Atlas, above you. Don't drop the world!

But down you jump - I'm afraid for a moment you might break your kneecaps, but you know you won't - and you retreive your lighter, pocket it, run off covered in bits of crunched up leaves.

Once you're gone, I grin; my turn to be God.