The stairs bowed
accepting my weight fully, even in their old age
foot fall after foot fall each more of a shuffle or a role like an old man heaves for breath,
half bent over
each sounded their distinct timbre; I
didn't so much lean against the banister, as I used it as a balance
while they where learning to be legs & feet
I lumbered as though on stilts either for the first time or that it maybe had been awhile
My right hand kept to itself hanging limply tossed this way or that, rolling fabric through fingers as prayer beads or as a tutor correcting a pupil's posture, braces the the chest.
In the dark, speech & the light in my eyes demure: all I can do is feel.
Yes a drink of water is what I intend on but the wood is slick in socks
& the stairs are endless, they bend & twist in to what?
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