I’ve spent time,

hours probably,

lying on the floor

at home.

I’m not sure why,

other than it’s convenient,

because, well,

there’s floor everywhere.

In the kitchen,

the white overhead light

reflecting orange off the pale wood cabinets above me.

In the living room,

the ancient blue carpet under me

still as thick as I remember,

years ago.

It’s calming,

lying there.

Last night,

after three hours with twenty six year olds,

a dead car

and a battery jump from strangers

who might have been angels,

I bundled back to the list of things,

(there’s always a list of things)

that come next.

But after the work and the study,

as the wave of adrenaline subsided,

leaving my mind just a little fuzzy,

my body just a little heavy,

I paused in the musty stairwell.

Spanning ten floors,

it was a rare moment by myself on the old concrete steps.

I laid down, there on the landing.

Stretched my legs,

my arms,

gazed up at the low white ceiling.

Lying still,

I felt the cold from below me

creep into my back,

my arms.

I felt my body relax,

settle into the hard floor.

Wide awake,

yet unmovingly quiet,

I felt the pace of my mind,

my heart,

slow in the silence,


cold, sobering hardness

of the stairway floor.

I stayed there minutes more,


barely thinking,

and when I got up,

the calm and the steady had permeated my heart,

just as the cold floor

still echoed down my spine;

a fading memory of a moment taken

to be still.



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