Doubt

Doubt disables, cripples,
bends you over at the waist
until you start to think
the closeup view of flooring
is the norm. It's all you see,
your feet, the little pathway
out ahead of tile, terrazzo,
sidewalk, grass, a narrow
focus that confines you to
the safety of inaction.
Doubt that you are anything
or anyone to take a stand
or raise a voice or be
somebody different,
someone heard or seen
or read.
Too much, perhaps, in terms
of work or time or liability,
rejection, criticism,
no one understands you
anyway. Doubt wants
you there, hunched down
and noticing that dust balls
are collecting in the corner.
Someone should stop
dreaming,
grab a broom, before
somebody tells you
doubt is only dust
inside your head.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015