The back stairway was a passage,
an eye opening ritual of shadows and
whispers seeking shelter behind a familiar door.
Cracked plaster and numerous unknown stains are
illuminated by a single light, its wire descending
from a dark ceiling, faintly showing the way to go.
It was a space without quiet, a conduit from
here to there. A grazing landscape of up and down.
Footsteps tapped out intentions without pause.
Winter air flooded in. Summer melted transient
travelers. Visitors of all hours passed through,
finding their way.
Roger Singer 