Stoop

I’m wondering, today.

Sitting halfway up our rounded stairwell, I realize the platform is wider if I curl into the wall. I extend my legs and stretch a bit. It’s been a lazy day so far, much needed recovery after a stressful 48.

I don’t normally perch here, stuck in purgatory between two ferns, but it just feels right, right now.

Rhino below, prepping to wash dishes and get the kitchen ship shape. Elephant tickling ivories (oh irony) and combining today‘s jam with some plucks on his guitar.

And I sit, between.

My butt hurts

This spot is cozy, allows me to withdraw yet still be

Hear

I take a deep yet raspy breath as this lingering cough lingers on.

Fresh, flavorful constituents line the trị-level hanging wire basket that I spy between the stairs’ guard rail.

Garlic, being garlic, top floor. Onions, huddled together to keep out the wind, level two. And ginger (plus four small round taters), well, they know their place.

We belong down here

My back curves as I peck away and imagine myself eating time, chatting with passing neighbors and friends.

And I can’t help but wonder whether that’s why we call it a stoop.

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Editor’s Note: “Darren, if you’d done even a modicum of cursory research you’d know it was from the Dutch for ’step’. But that would ruin the whole flow now wouldn’t it?”