There Are Only Three Steps
He’s smoking, looking grim
that time I passed him,
some of the others, going in,
up steps, stride in quick threes,
push glass doors and through,
and yet what will he do
with last night’s debris?
Rakes it, opens its shutters,
awakes litter blocked gutters,
floods maddening brains,
until this morning’s showers
wash clean down drains,
act fast on tough heart stains.
He doesn’t want to forget,
hasn’t punished them yet,
pulls on his damp cigarette,
in careful, calculated drags,
smoldering, end drooping,
gladness found in being sad.
Scarcely cradle trained,
this small boy framed,
sucking on a man’s smoke,
wears sadness as a cloak
surveys those who pass,
with the quickest glance,
until at last, his chance.
She pauses with sly smile,
stopping and stoops a while,
asking. He’ll not join them yet,
will sit a while upon three steps,
gives his friendship as regret,
painting life in this vignette.
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