There is a ladder in the garage that belonged to a man who is dead. It is aluminum and slightly bent at the third rung and every time I use it I hear him say hold the base, hold the base, as if I were nine and not forty. I have bought my own ladder since. It is better in every measurable way. It stays folded against the wall like a guest who was never really invited, and I take his down, bent rung and all, whenever the gutters need doing, and I hold the base, and there is nobody there to hold it, and I hold it anyway.
This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
