Rope

 

We run  six flights of stairs
Down looking in joint dark,
Our hands on a greasy rope

Of all those years together
Greased by our live palms.

We add grease from palms
Until we are famously dead

One of us is dead, the other
Presumed dead , filed away
For want of collateral proof.

The death rope is stiff with
Years of everyone’s grease.

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