Standing at the Stairs

A poem

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash

Upon returning home
and realizing
she had forgotten

to lock the back door
while running some 
errand or another,

my mother
would search
the basement

for the prowler
she was sure
had taken root

there, like a bad
case of mold.
Not to be 

outwitted, 
she'd have me
stand guard

at the top 
of the stairs
in case

she missed him—
in her mind
it was always 

a him—as he ran
from room to room,
evading

detection,
but for my
sharp eyes,

my whole body
tense
as I transformed

into Sisyphus,
my mother's anxiety,
the rock.