Flowers on the Stairs
Once I missed a flowering stair and nothing happened ─
no broken leg, no tumble, no head bang on the kneel post ─
but now every time I place my foot there, I feel a temptation,
as if inconsistent death still thought I’d be fun to play with.
Try not thinking about something that nearly hurt you,
and then walk in its footsteps with a healthy fall below.
See if you don’t stutter at the bent knee or think too hard
on something inconsequential just to forget and fail.
How long then before I’ll be trotting up other risers,
two at a time, in love with the tease of an evening
and too impatient to flip the light? How long
until the missed step counts me available,
and you who have never missed that stair ─ it’s awaiting
payment there, and its contract says nothing
about second chances like mine. You might find
yourself waiting at the bottom of a life
for your body to arrive and relieve you of
all the anxiety you have ever carried, in one
wrong and beautiful removal of something you
thought you could count on, if you thought at all.
Most likely you didn’t, unless you have the courage
to go upstairs right now and bring down your fear
from the attic of possibility, where statistics explain
that most deadly accidents happen in your own home,
where they can be lifted out of their misunderstandings
until the next time the stairs try to run away with you
or the bathtub drinks too much slippery jazz and wants to
dance, you can’t blame it, all the way to the top of a bottomless
life. Ask the wife what she’ll do without you. She knows
what you’ll do without her. It’s not much, but you won’t need
to remarry, as she will, and you won’t even have to pay the bill.
When you think about the future, you forget about the past,
when you thought about what you would be thinking about now.
That too was wrong, just as the stair was wrong to chastise you.
Taking it for granted was the right thing to do. Too bad
you listened to me and fell beyond my lengthy argument.
Rise now, heaven awaits your cane, Candy Man. Lick
the wrapper and exclaim, Oh My, and click your boney heels
until home dreams you filling it with children, persistent
children that survived your breathy dreams of blooming.