80 steps.
Four landings
with benches. Thank God.
Down is bad enough.
But up?
Bring oxygen tank.
Mr. Peevie grins
and runs past me
up the stairs.
The show-off.
I hate him.
Maybe he'll trip.
At the bottom
we kick off crocs and
cross a soft, sandy beach.
At the top,
if I make it,
the pool, the playground, the cottage.
Maybe I'll just stay on the beach a little longer,
and postpone the inevitable climb
up 80 steps.
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