Had a black eye for some time. We were glum
About it, desperate to help it heal.
I wanted to say; I fell down the stairs-
Once, but they weren’t my stairs. I didn’t have
To live with them. And although I can’t pass by
That house without feeling my steps get
Heavier, warily eyeing even
The curb- I know it’s not the same. I could
Get her the number of a bungalow,
But so could she. I’m sure she has good
Reasons, for staying put, I’m sure I would
See the difficulty in moving, if-
I had asked. I don’t want to have only
Offered tea and smiled at the bruised face
Of a woman, to find she was later one
Of two that week to die, falling down the stairs-
But what can you do?
I don't think this is about stairs at all. Clever. I've never been able to understand people who stay with stairs like that, but there's nowt as queer as folk
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