Running across the pews

Just once during a potluck I went upstairs with some
of my friends, our parents still nibbling and chatting

in the basement, and it must have been winter because
we ran around the square plain sanctuary as though

it was a playground. We discovered that we could run
across the tops of the pews, they were spaced a longish

but not impossible distance apart, it was fun and not
even really scary to stride from the front to the back,

with the comforting padded seats promising a soft-ish
landing if a foot slipped. But when I turned and started

back I saw instead the hard backs of the pews and
the floor a goodly way down, if I missed a step

the landing would hurt plenty. I kept going, of course,
not because anybody was watching but because

I was bent on finishing. I was alert but not panicky,
pretty sure I could do this, I made the little leaps

as though my stumpy legs were born for nothing
more than leaping from pew to pew, day into month

into year, making the good landing or the hard one.