I live in a house with no stairs.
Eighteen hundred thirty two square feet
three bedrooms, two baths two car garage.
Houses with stairs are for the young.
People who live in houses with stairs
go to work everyday
have kids and a dog.
Coming downstairs in the morning
is the beginning of a commute.
Kids go upstairs to their rooms
before slamming the door.
Men walk upstairs behind their wives
admiring the turn of her hip
knowing he will soon be taking off
her night gown.
I am alone in my house with no stairs.
Me and my cat.
Cats are less trouble.
You don’t have to walk them.
I don’t need stairs anymore.
The kids are gone off living their own lives.
There is no woman to follow
upstairs at night.
When I get up in the morning
there is no place I have to be.
There is laundry day.
Food shopping day.
Vacuum the house with no stairs day.
Doctor’s appointment day.
And I can always do it tomorrow.
I can spend stormy days
in my robe if I like.
No one is coming
to the door.
I live in half the house.
The back half.
Near the television and the microwave.
Near the lanai where I have my espresso
and a Macanudo.
I dust the other half of the house
while spending my day
Who has it better?
And I think about what went before
All the choices, great and poor
and how I never thought I’d miss
the slamming of that old screen door.