One more flight, then one more flight. That's all a climb has ever been. The turns are old, the weight is new. And either way, I'm going up. Tuesday finds me on the service stair, the way it always does. Her medicine packed flat inside the case I've carried years. The concrete takes my sound and gives it back a half-turn late. Six landings worth of morning still to go. The weight's been changing hands with me since somewhere around four. My legs keep their own time now. They're all I have to trust. There's gray paint on my fingers from the steadying I've done. And the sound I send ahead of me comes back a flight too late. The seven's worn to nothing where a seven ought to be. And I don't remember passing six. Every landing shows the same white word. And I haven't finished Tuesday yet. Eight on the landing. Eight on the next. Same chip in the paint. Same eight. I don't get lost. And the stair's gone quiet except for me. All the weight is in the carrying. The case is nearly nothing. Twenty years of Tuesdays in the tendons of one arm. The numbers wear away but the word stays painted new. And I've got Tuesday left to finish, so I take the turn. Exit sign. That's all the word has ever been. Paint on every landing for the ones with nothing left to carry. Exit sign. I said it once out loud, and it was shapes and paint. The weight in my hand still counts the flights. And I'm going up. I'm going up. I've stopped reading at the landings. I let the numbers go. The case pulls at one arm now. My feet take the next flight. Then the next. Maybe twelve is up there with the paint worn off its number. But Tuesday's in my legs now, and the case is in my hand. One more flight, then one more flight. One more flight, then one more flight.
