The Bottom of the Stairs

Standard

supposed to be in bed
maybe, slipping from the bed
ordering my side lunch-ins and
breakfasts in bed
is how I wish to think of you
a laissez faire smile
the smell of coffee
and perhaps
redemption
from the city street noises
that keep me up at night.

I’ve lived on stone hard floors
and maple leaf cots
thrown together by girls
burnishing their side bangs
blushing,
at the looks.
oh, no, of course not
I have to live here
they might explain
humbly gesturing to the array of
blankets
at the bottom of the stairs.

it is one AM
a time reserved
only for poets.

at two AM
I was dreaming
of you.
and perhaps,
I was still naïve about
life
but how else
was it supposed
to be viewed?

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

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