A Stairwell, Outside a Bank

Through the iron bars, a stairwell, and in it
The shadows of the iron bars, black, aslant, severe,
And gray concrete steps going up and going down,
And a dark well of coolness rising like an echo,
But no one, nothing flourishing, astonishing or dying,
Until I finally asked myself what kept me there in reverie
Maybe five minutes before I went into the bank.
The other night I was strolling on Fourth Avenue,
The old sixties street where the retro-hippies
Lounge and beg, and the drunks
Walk with the crazies who carry Bibles
From The Second Free Will Baptist Church.
Strung among them, teenagers
Punked-out like metal flowers on display
Who watch with contempt the middle-aged
Entering the restaurants and looking back
With fear, or pity, or memories of the good old days
When questions still outnumbered answers.
The man who blocked my path
Seemed neither dangerous nor nuts.
About my height and age. A back-pack
And his boots looked sensible for miles of walking.
Are you a spiritual man? he asked.
And instead of answering glibly
I stood there and wondered what spiritual meant.
What people mean by it. I didn’t engage the man.
What came to mind were iron bars and shadows, and the stairs, and no
Meaning in that but some beauty I must have seen,
Cold, as some beauty is, and momentary,
And through the gap between the beauty and the void
Something like an echo of water running over rocks.
If I felt lighter than my body
I didn’t have the means to weigh it then.