History has many corridors, yes,
and floodlit stages where the folks
with greater parts than we have
romp, cavort, and trade bold gestures
that affect us all,
and sooty alleys where you’d only go
for love or money;
it’s a steeply winding stair,
a sliding board, a tunnel or a ramp,
depending on your gravity of mind
or point of view—but all
the same, the level years
like floors that tumble though a burning house
and come to rest, blue cinders,
on the ground where all things subject
to the laws of change must come to rest,
the shelf of now,
this moment over breakfast
as we touch warm fingers over
toast and jam
and say, okay, I’m glad you’re here,
no matter what we said or did before,
I’m glad you’re here.