Despair Creeps Up The Wooden Stair

I am chaining myself to the basement wall. You brought me here, awkwardness and all.

There are no books to come to my aid, I am a crippled, fervent old maid, washing spotless the ancient window through which you'll see me go.

As you tear through swamps, I am on crocodile snouts.

As you dash over roofs, I am squeezing through leaky spouts.

I see you up from the down

having a ball halfway across town,

while I sit at my gate awaiting a liquid mandate.

I read too many books. I devour all the concerned looks

that close ones give me, are you still close?

This poem is not for a man, not the one I want to be,

but for a bored child, rambling abandoned, full of possibility.

Where silence ends I cannot tell. I am a tired bird, a romantic shell.

Please visit me in the morning when I am well,

in the morning when I am well.