I saw the man from outside my window

He held a measuring tape

I watched him move around the sidewalk from behind the drapes

Pest services? Lawn maintenance?

I observed in patience

Thought of the old man across the street I haven’t seen in so long

He’s going on 83

Last time I saw him he was bent at 90 degrees

Sure it’s been winter

But his cordial hellos each morning and afternoon I remember

The old lady next door to him was carried out on stretcher a few months ago

Was she the same age?

The mortician’s van had been parked outside

I sense death has rage

So I hide behind the window pane

What’s that man measuring

I had to go, get on with the questioning

I peeked around and saw his truck – “Ramps” it said on the back

I left and came home and he was right on track

A metal black ramp with handrails had been installed

I couldn’t help but feel a little bit appalled

I envisioned my best friend’s house with that ramp out front

Her limber father no longer able to do his stunts

A ramp meant a wheelchair, surely

For him it seemed way too early

ALS taking hold

His family watched him slowly fold

A few rounds up and down that ramp

What’s to become of the old man on the other side of camp

I stare at it now as I write

A black platform shaped like an “L”

Somehow it seems like a stairway to hell

I’ll kick and scream and fight

We should all be climbing stairs

Steps of gold to somewhere

I wait for spring

Staring at that house across the street

It’s strangely warm in late February

Like winter’s defeat

The old man doesn’t appear like usual on a pretty day

Like a disease in remission

He and I both are behind the windows 

Against the houses and trees the wind blows

Both the ramp and the steps remain in their positions