Fire Stairs

Each weekday morning
i climb six flights
to my office.

Sealed into a shaft
Of concrete and iron,
i slowly
ascend,

Trudging,
Thudding,
Breathing;

Nodding silently
To standpipes
And sprinkler valves
And the scuff mark
Shaped like a
Soda bottle.

Each landing
Its landmark,
Each numeral
Its meaning and place.

The elevator is faster
But it is crowded
And sullen
And the journey means
Nothing.

i prefer to climb,
My briefcase
Bumping against my hip
Like a saddlebag
Against the flanks
Of a prospector's mule:

Each nudge
Reminds me
Of what i carry
And what is carrying
Me.

Willingly
i ascend
Alone and silent
To my bower
Of glass and steel,

And when i arrive,
i feel the gentle thud
Of pumping blood

The stretch of tendons
The mild, muscular heat
And the knowledge

That at the end of this journey
There is work to be done.

The stairs are there
For safety, and
Each day
They quietly,
Happily
Save
My life.

--Mr. Gobley