Below the stairs is where I want to be;
The people up above are too consumed
And sickly in their self-congratulation.
The air downstairs is pungent yet perfumed.
No rueful, unrequited love dwells here;
This place is where our follies are exhumed.
There’s no plush carpet like they have up top,
Just dingy crumbling concrete on the floor.
Some tenants may be flawed or something worse,
But others found that they could take no more.
Up there the drinks are sipped and cheeks are kissed;
Here tempers fray and grudges are borne sore.
And yet, I don’t regret the route I chose.
Though higher floors have virtues dealt in spades,
And few real tales of woe or of distress,
Down this way all pretence of glory fades.
New neighbours swap examples of their faults;
Atonement is a sin which none parades.