Load-Bearing

The knee clicked twice on the second step.

I grabbed the railing with both hands.

The laundry basket sat on the step above me.

The fluorescent light made its demands:

just hum. Just keep going.

Behind the first-floor door, the dog

barked once at the sound—just once—

and went back through the fog

of whatever dogs dream about.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs

in the particular light of 7 a.m.,

nothing left to declare

except: the click. The hands on the rail.

The basket balanced on the step.

The body sending its small telegrams.

I stood there and I kept

my hands on the rail a moment longer.

Then I let go. I picked it up.

Walked the rest of the hall

the way you fill a cup—

just to the edge. Not over at all.