Seventeen Steps

Always seventeen.

Every time.

The first one, then the third,

the slightly chipped edge

of the ninth, where I always

stub my toe, just a little.

Then, seventeen.

I get to the top,

my breath just catching,

a small, weary thing,

a sigh I didn't know I'd held.

Why do I do it?

The scuff mark on the paint

at the edge of the last step,

a small victory,

or just a habit

worn thin, like a path

no one remembers forging.