Flights of Stairs
Meg Pokrass

I remind her that we were a couple who had once lived up six flights of stairs.

I remind her that we were in the farthest apartment.

I remind her that perhaps I had always had a bad memory and always will and that, still, everything surprises me.

I remind her that I feel too much like my mother after I eat a lot.

I remind her that certain sounds people make when they eat sickened her.

I remind her that television didn't interest us at all, in fact, we never turned it on.

I remind her that her knees were lousy.

I remind her that we are all alone with these things.

I remind her that a human can take you with them, and there is no way back.

I remind her that there are worse things than being adorable.

I remind her that she was crossing the street before the light was actually green.

I remind her that her scent is in the closet.

I remind her that I go for walks.

I remind her that one day I'll smile in my sleep.

I remind her that she should wait for cars to pass.

1996 © 2010