The staircase seems nondescript.
It tells me who I am.

Tuesday it was all ammonia.
Metal with bubbles,
clean, damp but not fresh.

By Thursday, it was all barf
with a touch of cigarette,
not the newly-lit cigarette
but the one soaking in water,
making you sick, making you wilt.

Every day, it tells me I’m no good.

Park my car, hit the staircase,
walk the sidewalk,
ride the escalator,
beep with my badge
and I’m back in prison.

Prison’s okay,
but the staircase:
It tells me I’m not fit to live.

It makes loud clanky sounds,
tells me to lay down and die.