Poised

A brief reflection.

I lie on my bed, staring at a hat that hangs precariously on the end of its hook. It is as far out on its plastic limb as gravity will allow it to sit. It sways gently, unmoved, caressed by the air from a fan in my room. The slightest touch--poltergeist's breath--would surely send it to the floor. Yet it remains poised on the end of is hook.

I will not touch it. I will let it decide whether or not it will drop, lose its battle with gravity.