The Back Stairs
It seems you always enter from the back stairs,
the servant’s entrance, Without announcement,
generally not even noticed. Quiet more than stealthy
you learn the lay of the land, see the work
that needs to be done and begin,
slowly becoming part of the landscape
missed more from the loss, than the presence.
It is a habit learned in your youth,
a silent stealthyness, a distrust of the limelight
which was likely to end in a drunken punishment
for simply being. A habit you have adopted as useful
in this age of anger and hate. Simpler to be
quiet. Or if not simpler, safer.
About this poem
Just a musing about a habit I have long noticed about myself, but not always looking at the why.
The picture was taken in Cambridge, NY.