A Coated Banister

Updated: Jan 8

The mayflies have died

as paint on the banister,

once coal

now smooth.

I spot such texture

from a window where the light

is sherbet.


Dad says not to use those stairs,

that I'll fall through,

for the wood is rotting

from years of rain + storm,

and that I'm not the same

sprightly child

I once was.


I take it as an insult,

insisting that the wood is dry

and that I am still young.


As I proceed past the door

across the deck,

shuffle in splinters

until I reach the gate,


a bee waits in a crack.

The wind repeats the same

note,

of the wind chimes.

It rained yesterday.


I persist

in fear,

the one drop of love + trust

tucked in

to this moment of doubt.


I take it slow

to observe

the mayflies

subconsciously

as I go by,

wrapped in

a blank vision

of tobacco spit,

fire smoke + beer.


Then I am at the bottom

to bricks.


I see my mother

watching from the window

smiling.



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