At the top of the stairs
lived all my lasting errors.

I used to live there too.
Then I fled down here

and left (or thought I left)
those villains behind.

I looked up for what I thought
would be the final time

and the stairs flattened
and all my lasting errors

slid down and heaped up
around my ankles. I could not move.

Once again, there was
nowhere left to go. 

Decent heart,
improper body.
Old story. In fact
old man story:
spirit too sour,
flesh and blood too sweet.

Thanks tonight to decent bed,
to rest and random touch.
Thanks to light through
blinds laying bars across
bedspread and bodies. Almost
how it was when I was confident;

cozied up almost to arrogance;
almost tight with it,
almost no light between.
Now there’s nothing to keep 
us together. Nothing in which
to glory. Nothing to shout out. 

Of course you are cancelling
every appointment we’ve made
and now you are not speaking
in any way we like to call civil
or polite.

Meanwhile I’m
flat on my back
in a supermarket
where I’ve fallen in front of
the prepared foods and salads.

I don’t know how it happened.
No one’s trying to help me, except
for the worker who’s asking
if I need a cart for what scattered
from my arms when I hit the floor.

Of course there’s no point now
to thinking about missed jobs
and phone calls. The ceiling’s 
interesting. A bird’s flying from girder
to girder. He seems certain

of landing where he intends
to land. I’m afraid to rise as
I don’t know if on my feet will ever be
the right place for me to land

ever again. Of course no one’s
calling to offer me a place to land
that’s any safer than on my feet
so I can fall again. I might just stay here 
where having fallen is safer than waiting to fall.

I had my share of it, they say,
and now they don’t want me here.

One share, two shares, five shares, more:
who do you think you are, they say?

What do you think you are owed? 
Nothing, I say. All I want

is my name and a scrap of corner light
from my old bedroom. Some place

to call ancestral. I’m not
to the manor born but once

I squalled and squealed here
and I believe that still echoes.

I don’t believe this is about
what I’m owed or even about

who owes, you see. 
This is about honoring the part of me

that should have staked my claim
when I still trusted you.

I didn’t think I’d even
need to ask and now we are here,

or rather I’m here and you
are there with your stake and claim,

your chains and surveyor’s transit.
Mine, you say, as you set up 

on my stone. I don’t even want
that, I say. It’s dark here

and a little light
from the family window

would be enough for me.
Nothing more tangible.

Nothing that you need 
to surrender. 

The darkness in this home 
is the depth of a hall closet

where things are hanging
that haven’t seen light in decades.

Dust and mildew, but also
whatever was left there

after the last family wedding
anyone remembers attending:

the brutal one. The terminal one.
The dark ceremony with all

the strength of its memory
breaking though and overwhelming

the shields of thin plastic 
draped over the shoulders

and lapels. It’s been decades
but there’s no room for anything else,

in the house, even if the door to the closet
closes again and locks hard. 

The guy
doesn’t bother
taking the cover
off his unregistered car
to move it ten feet
down the curb. Didn’t hit
the neighbors’ car which is 
kind of a pity as that might have been
the last straw, 
last act in the ghost play — 
he’s been a squatting ghost
for far more than a year now;
lots of banging, lots of
dragging heavy things,
lots of late night
visitors, lots of doors
left open, not just unlocked,
wide open at all hours. 
Was supposed
to have moved at the end of last month
but something
went wrong with that
as has been the case
for the last three years between
the ‘vid
and the eviction moratorium.
Between compassion for him and 
agony for the rest of us. No, 
I don’t know or particularly care about
where he’s supposed to go.
Fatigue has put a cover over
my compassion. No,
I surely don’t know
where we were supposed to go
or what we’re supposed to have done.
Anger has torn the cover 
from my tolerance. 
All I know is the rest of us
are dog’s-old-bone tired
of living with the ghost
and if we don’t get some rest soon
someone’s going to
rip that cover off his car
and have it towed
straight to Hell while he 
chases it all the way down.

Long road. Decent
scenery. Occasional 
rock falls spilling onto
the shoulders, more often
sheets of gravel across pavement,
left there by runoff.
Careful, careful, you say.
Not too fast, you have
time. A long road
demands time, requires
attention when you
are this far
from one home
and not close enough yet
to a new one. There may not be
enough time left to get there
of course but on the way
you need to be careful, 
careful, especially as you
approach what you think will be
the destination.  Being
too eager is how you slip
from the road and go
over the edge, dragging rock
and gravel with you
as you roll screeching
your resignation all the way
to the silence that will flood 
your stop at the bottom.