On A Cold Step.
There will always be a perimeter:
A place where the frail will be pushed and forsaken.
Or a corner where one will not be noticed as much
as a new arrival in the pack.
As a kid, I sat on many cold steps -
It all started outside our back door.
I’d be put out there ’till I stopped crying,
and I didn’t always know why I cried.
As I sat out there, on the step, sobbing,
I’d hear laughter and talking from inside.
I was sure that everyone was laughing at me.
I felt as if I was an outsider.
After a while, the door became my shield.
It was solid, green and reliable.
I could lean against it and gain support.
I had no fear of it bursting open.
That old back door would never let me down.
Once, I stood up and kicked it hard,
but it didn’t make any difference.
It absorbed my frustrations and stood firm.
After all this time muffled laughter
can make my blood run cold. Never,
I’ll never shake off those old memories.
I’ll always be the one who’s looking in.
I could sit on any icy step and
get some comfort out of doing just that.
On a cold step with my back to a door:
It was as good as it got for me, then.
But lately, I’ve been thinking about things,
about them ‘Pearly Gates’: will they open
when rest my back against them?
I suppose I can always gaze through the bars
