Priority
By Addison Schoeman
November 15, 2024
November 15, 2024
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You wouldn’t care to help me with this door,
Would you? It’s hard to get the key out, when I’ve got to hold it open and my hands Are shaking like this. Thank you. Thanks. I’m not Supposed to have this key, but I don’t have Another place to go, and, since it’s cold, The shelters are all starting to fill up And they’ve become a little more unsafe, Unlike the stairwell here—mind you, the one I grew up climbing every day, from youth To just a couple years ago, when they Evicted me because I couldn’t pay— It’s warm, and since each floor is doored, people Don’t use it very often, so it’s safe To sleep there. Edward, the new super, kicked Me out again last week, and, while he’s nice About it, I don’t know what I’m supposed To do: I try to keep away from you, And clean up after myself; and I know I don’t smell great, and sometimes leave a bag Or bottle on the stairs, but really, I’m Just trying to survive—can you believe I’m only thirty-eight? I feel as old As time—and mirrors are my nightmare. You Discard them, sometimes, in the lobby here, And, walking by, toward the stairs, I see That shabby, withered shape I’ve taken on— The one that you all see—unfocused eyes, Slacked cheeks; this grisled chin I used to rest On third floor sills, looking out at the same American Elms losing all their leaves As winter yearly tumbled in—that shape The mirror shows ain’t me. I’m dignified, And you know it. The booze, the fucking booze, Is just to get me through. You try living In a stairwell. Besides, it hasn’t been Like this for long—remember when you first Saw me—you’d moved here just a couple months Before, when COVID reached its peak; I’d been Released from NewYork-Presbyterian With a white tube protruding from my throat And couldn’t really speak—this was before I started drinking—on a mild day In June I wore that yellow checkered shirt- Jacket and sat outside this building, on The concrete steps, and you, before you knew, I guess, my reputation, said to me “Nice coat” and smiled. I still don’t know your name, And I don’t think you know mine, but I think About you, now and then, and wonder if, Had we never talked before I found Myself like this, you’d speak to me at all. I know you don’t acknowledge Louis G., Who also hangs around here, but his case Is more intense than mine—with the screaming and Psychotic threats of murder, rape, and fire— And him, evicted from the seventh floor The day his mother died—knowing or not Of his aggressive schizophrenia. What can we do? It’s hard to get a job, Then hard to keep one; hard to find a place To sleep for longer than a night—and what Are you supposed to do? Would you pick me, Of all the people in the world, to help, If you could? Give me money? Give me sleep? Security? A shower? Purpose? Give Me back my family? My home? Time? There is a barrier, of something like glass, Encasing every move I make. You know Because you see me through it; light refines This figure I inhabit into want, And you don’t want the want to want from you What you, you know, deserve no more than me. Please use the other staircase, or the lift, And don’t disturb me while I’m sleeping. It’s The only break I get from all this shaking. |
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Addison Schoeman is a teaching fellow at Columbia University, where he completed an MFA and served as poetry editor for issue 62 of the Columbia Journal. His poetry has appeared in Eunoia Review, Bicoastal Review, and The Broken City. Find him on Instagram @at.schoeman.
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