The hard part of driving a forklift
happens twenty-five feet in the air
when my left fork clips the wall of
a pallet, sliding its side off the rail.

                                                Thirty-six
                           cases of coffee beans
            now brewed into tense battle 
with gravity while while a gathering
of spectators stop to watch the show,
probable tragedy being written,
the least (or most) of which
the girl, my crush
is there.

                                              I freeze up
                          for any unintentional
          motion will challenge balance,
the teetering and the tottering, sigh,
how am I going to get out of this jam
without long holding up everybody
with the work they still 
need to do? Do I just
let it fall?

                                              Or maybe,
                         if right fork maintains
               its hold on that side, if I can       
manipulate machine, maneuvering
into the center of the pallet’s gravity
I can get enough support to gently
guide it all back into place.
Good move, someone
softly says.

My mind is still, blood ice cold, I
never had a doubt in my abilities.
Turning now a confident clockwise,
I square up and complete the save…
…

…

In moments, the load is securely down
when the next hardest part happens.
She drives by without a word or glance.
No twisting maneuver saves this fall.