These days he goes down the steep cellar stairs
sideways, facing the wall, both hands clamped on
the rail as he lowers a foot to the next step,
not looking down but feeling the way with the toe
of his slipper, placing the foot firmly, then waiting
a moment before lowering the other foot, fitting
it next to the first, his thin leather slippers
parked side by side as they’d be in a closet. Then
loosening one hand, sliding it down, getting
a good grip, the other hand following, gripping,
one foot swinging out, swinging down, its toe
tapping the riser to feel it, then setting it down,
the other foot following, step down to step without
looking, his eyes to the wall as he counts his way
lower, ten steps to the bottom, both feet on each step
down and down, as if to the bottom of time
where everything’s settled, then back, step by step,
but now climbing forward, a little more labored,
pushing a quart jar of peaches from each step
to the step just above, one step at a time, a man
following peaches, only one hand on the rail.