In Praise of Stairs
An elevator's swift at changing floors
but might obscure the shift between each story
or trap one high behind unyielding doors
or open up on floorless purgatory.
And escalators' restless, churning jaws
insist one reach the bottom or the top.
Their toothy heads of cold revolving saws
provide no chance to sit and think or stop.
With stairs, one's journey feels a little slow,
but feet can savor every step progressed.
The legs can change directions that they'll go,
and stairs can serve as seats when bodies rest.
Though humble stairs don't offer modern speed,
they satisfy an ancient, inner need.
Paul Burgess
If you
have any thoughts about this poem, Paul
Burgess would like to hear them
