Night Stairs

When I was young I had an affinity for fire escapes.
There were none to be found
in the pristine corner of suburbia
chosen as a perfect place to raise kids
by my parents and so many like them,
two story houses so like the other
that only colors set them apart.

and so I would ride far, for hours,
shimmying down the tree outside my window,
and silently pedaling east to the city,
to places less savory
and far more fascinating, almost foreign,
and in the dangerous hours of the morning
climb and sit, like some refuge from West Side Story
and listen to the wild life of the city streets.

I heard cats in the alley, sex. whispered drug deals,
the serenade of alcoholics, the buzzing of neon,
prayers that wafted out of windows,
animal brutality and the madness of dementia.

Today, with  each trip to the city, I see, I remember.,
I wonder what insanity drew me to the night stairs,
or if I was perhaps more sane  as the bat-like watcher
than ever I was sleeping in my own quiet bed.

About this poem.

Sometimes the safest place is not the best place.

Tom