a place

unlawful loitering reads the sign

hanging over my head if i turn around

to look at it, but the graffiti, scribbled

across the first word tells me to stay

on these seven steps with seven people

sitting, scattered

like birds perched on electric wires against the sky

like musical notes dancing on line sheets

stains plastered on the pavement

from our egg sandwich breakfast

i see what was once ketchup

but now red hues seeped into the ground

a distant memory of taste, satiation

splashes of our dinner

residues from excessive erasing,

the remnants of pencils that we lose

faster than we can sharpen or scribble

the vanishing ideas of our minds

puddles of brown liquid

once held in ‘caution the contents are hot’ coffee cups,

once aromatic, but now

reduced to blobs of spit and cigarette ashes,

as a medley of all the things we needed, wanted,

and couldn’t resist to indulge in

the last remaining inches of once full cigarettes,

lip-stained, bent, and chewed on

by mouths that once spoke in charming dialogue

but now cover the steps where we sit and

they shuffle past us with the little leaves

on a windy day, that brings with it

the smell of simmering meat from the corner

kiosk we all frequent when we need to devour

pain, increasing stress levels, and uncertainty

sometimes our joys, if were lucky

the steps collect bits of all of us

from saliva to sweat to tears

used papers, empty bottles, half eaten lunches and perhaps,

this, if i were to crumble it and throw it on the ground

mix it with orange peels that have been collected from

here, where we sit

during the schedules that allow us

 time to burn sticks of immediate pleasure

and let them drag

slowly like thick marijuana smoke

before we abandon them with the twist of our feet

  and the pigeons, they too have provided material

to write about, for they have been here longer

than we’ve abused the place

no wonder they rage and flap their filthy feathers

at the sight of our feet, beneath the once in a while

darkened sky that sends down water in attempt to

wash away everything we have left behind

yet, when we return the next day with

coffee and bagels in hand, we sit
next to the stains that were there yesterday
and said no to the rain

but the man we always see, the keeper

of the stairs, beside me

with dust pan and broom in hand, he

nurtures them, sweeping

the yellow butts off the ground with

diligent ease and satisfaction as though he

had to lay his head, to rest here at night,

when we all go home.