Home > poetry > At the bottom of the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs.

After a moment, I realized I was still standing at the bottom of the stairs.

I’m not sure how long I was pinned there,

locked into the dulled green of each carpeted step.

Those steps held something important, something I needed to know.

But suddenly I  jumped back into my body.

I forgot where I was going.

I forgot that one must climb stairs in order to go up.

This was just after I envisioned myself punching each tree I passed,

because each silent trunk looked so content and so sturdy,

and I did not.

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