Between Floors

I walked past one and remembered what it felt like

to climb those stairs when I was younger,

the metal cold, the view from the landing

of another building's back wall,

brick and air and the sense that I could escape

if I needed to.

Now the metal is warm. The paint is chipped.

It's not an exit anymore, just a staircase

bolted to the outside of a building,

a legal requirement, a safety measure,

a way out nobody thinks about until they need it.

I stood there looking up at the landings,

thinking about how many people have used that staircase

in an emergency, thinking about fire,

thinking about the ones who made it down

and the ones who didn't.

The metal is still there. It's still warm.

It's still a way out.