Monday starts the staircase,
each flight more foreboding than the next.
At first we start with some cautious optimism,
something nearing hope that
this time, the climb’s a little easier,
or the steps a little smaller,
or maybe there’s a lucky dollar bill along the way.
But optimism gives way to
fatigue and frustration, two chains
gripping to our ankles to make the ascent
that much worse.
Wednesday comes dread,
dread for all the things half-finished
that won’t be full-finished anytime soon,
no matter our sweat and brainpower and
exhaustion that have induced sore backs and
fuzzy minds.
Yet a smile returns as we near the Friday summit,
we see the very last step and race towards it,
preserving projects for next time and
shedding our tight suits to
leap off this staircase to nowhere.
It feels good to be free, fall
into a black abyss, feel
gravity pull us apart and the
wind whip our ears and
howl as we come alive.
It makes us think that maybe it’s not so bad,
that we can keep this going until sixty-five
and enjoy these lives until
splat! We’ve smacked the ground
so much faster than it took to climb.
There’s no time to waste.
Pick ourselves up,
dust ourselves off,
and get back to that staircase.