Three Floors

Second floor —
the girl
with the broken leg
and her roommate
who is never there.

Third floor, the woman
witb the brain illness
who hasn’t changed
her inspection sticker
since 2023.

On the first floor?
Me, with two strokes, a partner,
and a cat, but let’s not
dwell on that. Let’s instead
dwell on how dark

it’s getting out there
in the world, the nation,
the tents of the unhoused,
the darkening nights closing in
on Thanksgiving.

Anything other than
my ruined life. Anything
other than the destroyed Earth.
My heart skips its uniform beats
often — I try not to dwell here

in the brimful parade
of souls who don’t yet know
they are discarded and have been found
wanting. I’m waiting for the right moment
to tumble into the fire —

except, it may not come. It may instead
drag itself past this holiday
into Christmas, then past that
into a new year. Second floor may heal
and third floor may heal; I might heal myself

or figure out a way ahead.
None of us know. Meanwhile the stars
continue turning slowly, slowly above.
They don’t care above us. They just turn:
oblivious to pain, to holidays, to the setting

and the rising of the sun;
glorious to see the uncaring nature
of things. Of things invisible
to us all. The cat yawns and stretches
in my spare room where she sleeps.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T