Brooklyn Stoop

22ndFeb. × ’08

From two blocks down
I see Marie’s distinctive frame—
the heavy shift from left foot to right
the square shoulders of a coat too big
and a body too frail.

You never know how lucid or not
she might be, shift stepping
towards November’s dementia.

Nobody likes to see an old lady
lost and cold.

In the summer, I thought her sharp,
sitting outside in her folded beach chair,
umbrella above when it rained.

You must know, this is not the beach,
this is a stoop in Brooklyn
overlooking long since paved streets
cracked and simple.

Once a friend passed her
on the way to our place for dinner
and Marie said, “Be a dear and help me
button my blouse.”

And once, my roommate walked her to the nursing home
twenty minutes at her shifted pace
just to find it wasn’t open that day,
then said, “Walk the other way
if you’re late.”

Her daughter lives a few houses down
anyway, there is a gaggle of grandchildren
full of smiles.

She used to work for Ford motor company
and always asks
“How was your day dear?”

We never walk the other way
in spite of ourselves
we learn the value
of being late.

We slow down
to the infiltrating wisdom,
the depressed footholds,
of a Brooklyn stoop.

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