Down the Staircase

Up the Staircase ? Your feet reluctantly begin to climb the broken, filthy stairs, in this hell-hole of outcast ones, without someone who even cares. Stairs stink of urine and feces. They reek of cooking cheap fast food. You know when you get to the top, you won’t find one thing that is good. Women who sell themselves for food, or a bottle; a hit of dope. Uncombed hair, dirty nails lined black, no pride or the least bit of hope. Here live the cowboys who let men ride them so they can pay the rent. Some sweaty man who stinks of filth, that a pimp on a corner sent. A saggy mattress with roaches and mouse-holes, a yellow pillow stiff with things you do not want to know, sheets as rough as old Brillo. Here they live and here they all die, unremembered, unrepentant. Potter’s field is the next stop, but it at least has no outrageous rent.