105. Gecko

I stand upon a balcony
tranquil and at ease
when a scuffle on the iron rail
prompts head raise.
I spy a little gecko
spying back at me –
a tiny cutesy baby gecko
staring back.
To see fragility
in that scaly frown
reminds me of my giantness,
the power it implies.
The gecko doesn’t move
as I stroke its skull
but watches me with wary eye,
for I must seem terrible.
I don’t know what it is
about the smaller things:
the gecko, relaxed and trusting –
I bend my fingers
and finger-punch it hard
square in the ribs;
flying through the sky it goes,
instantly dead.
To three floors below
the bitty corpse plummets
with a silent splat –
it’s the little things
like this
that reassure me
just how all-right life is now,
when I’m alone.
For you don’t know
when you’ll be
the gecko on the rail –
flicked harshly off,
falling down fast, hoping for death
before you hit the ground,
because someone above you
just couldn’t help it.