105 E. 4th

How often have I pounded down those steps:
half a hundred times a month?

Striding across the porch where we ate burgers,
beneath the slanted roof where we lay and watched a lightning storm.
One-two hips swing, three-four knees fling, carrying me
into the clear darkness,
Careening to a waiting car,
chasing jubilant into cold downpours,
drifting down the evenings when the starlings chatter
and sunset burns the leaves yellow.

Leaving
fucked up at five a.m. (dizzy with smoke)
vodka drunk at two or three.
Pissed, glad, walking tired,
barefoot, booted, swaying back together or
alone,
always alone on Mondays,
turned away from your screen door,
threading these sidewalks home
beneath a full moon, half moon, stark starry sky.

How often I have clattered down those four rickety stairs
and out across town:
one thousand steps from my doorway to yours.