MARSHALL DURY
Steps

gravely cement
not meant for
skipping a step.

it was here that
if one wasn’t careful,
shins could be
scraped down
to their bone.
those sharp
corners
poured by
a day laborer
decades ago.
it was here that
dad broke his ribs—
after falling from a
ladder while cleaning
the gutters.
him asking me not to
get mom. his torso
sprawled across 3 of
the 4 vicious angles.
it was above these
steps that we affixed
giant inflatable tree
ornaments at Christmas.
hanging on sharp angles
in the blustery New England
winter wind.
            it was here that
            i countlessly saw
my brother back
out the driveway
heading for Ohio, Millbury
or Worcester.
it was here that they
both would wave
goodbye when i headed
back to university.
            it was here that
           was hardest to
shovel. the snow  
nearly welded into
the cold stone grooves.
it was here that
i would relax with
a sweet glass of
iced tea after an
afternoon of driveway
basketball or evening
autumn football.
            it was here that
            every so often the
            family would laugh
            and for a minute, it
            would feel like an
            easy sitcom. where
            nothing could go wrong.
it was here.
it was here
but now it’s gone. and
i’m still working on not
sighing. understanding
that the steps are not
my own anymore.


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