Martin Worster
Up
The outside was in need of repair:
Stucco scattered on the pavement like dead skin,
Balcony railings bleeding rust down a pock-marked facade,
The blistered door, now brown, wedged open like it had always been.
He hesitated, smoothed his thinning hair, then stepped inside.
Damp stood on the walls like sweat, betrayed his memory
Of floor polish and cigar smoke, made him smile.
There were just as many steps as he remembered
But arriving there before that door, that number,
Was a shock, like losing twenty years.
Until he sharpened-up the focus,
Looked around again, and at his hands,
Imagined more a spiral than a circle,
A huge staircase twisting up and around, narrowing.
If he could only lift his head.
Page(s) 52
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