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Chasing
Ben Mitchell
Two boys run down hallway stairs.
The younger one tears his red pants
on the splintered railing.
His brother, older and faster, leaps
into the bedroom,
slams the peeling door
and breathes heavily against it. I canšt
remember what I was trying to say,
what drove me
to chase him down those stairs that day.
I needed to tell him something,
struggling by that door,
beneath the stains in that plaster ceiling ,the hiss
and clank of the radiator.
Later, I would dream that I remembered it
exactly — I could feel again how important,
how fundamental.
Something to do with why wešre here
something about life. Shit,
Adam, if only youšd stopped to listen.
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