You ever walk up a flight of concrete stairs
and wonder who poured the cement?
How long until it starts to crack?
And how many winters it can survive
until the cement needs to be ripped out
and new steps need to be created?
At the top of the stairs there’s a sign.
The sign shows office numbers.
Eleven. Twelve- one. two. three.
A person passes you with a lemon in their hand.
I see not eleven, but two sticks standing.
What the hell is eleven and where did that
yellow oval object come from. A branch?
First a sapling, barely making it through its first year.
The Woman tending the citrus plant was kind enough
to ensure its life continued, and there, walking near you,
was its offspring. I can’t walk up a flight of cement stairs
without thinking. I find it more and more difficult
to talk with people who simply see stairs.
I don’t see stairs. I see life. I see beautiful life.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This poem is dedicated to Al. A builder of cement stairs.
Matt is a loving father and husband. Their small family lives on the side of a mountain in Maine. Matt's work, to include both poetry and short stories, has been published in numerous online and print publications. Matt's short story, Bodies in the Basement, was voted publication of the year (non-poetic) on Spillwords Press, 2019.