They are alone, gray, and over them arch the words "Alabama School of Mathematics and Science." There are holes where iron rails were once embedded. Wide and perfect for sitting.

It's an old church converted into a residential school. That's ironic, in a way. The girl's dorm once contained Sunday school clasrooms. A preacher once stood where Dr. Laurenson now stands. Old ladies once ascended these steps every Sunday, fueled by faith.

So the area degenerated, property values declined, church and old ladies moved away for nicer, Goldier-looking areas, leaving a cheap church for sale, front steps attached.

They face Dauphin Street. Another irony is the iron fence, vertical bar and bar and bar, separating me from the outside. Cars pass, day and night. The steeple of our neighbor, the Presbyterian Church, glows green in the darkness. The passerbys entertain. Joggers, dog walkers, leftovers still mysteriously lacking cars. A lot has happened on them. If stairs could talk, you might say. Shaded by the shadow of the church, cool all day long. They leave red lace impressions on my hands, tiny rocks in my palms. (After all these years, there are still tiny rocks.)

I remove my shoes.

I and a friend have come to talk.

It is dark. The wind wipes away so much I thought was important. I sort through the piles of days and find myself among the noise I have collected.

My friend and I have argued. I force the issue, blunt for once. I want her to understand.

It's summer. I know few people. A hurricane is coming. I sit on the front steps and ruminate; the clouds swirl above the earth in frenzied expectation.

We have stolen away from Winter Formal music noise, and the fog is heavy. We walk in the grass barefoot, looking beyond the fence.

Seven in the morning, I study Biology; there's a test to fail first period. Morning rolls by in its waking splendor, including my biology teacher, and it does him good to see me there, biology book in hand. I do not echo the sentiment. It's a very different Mobile at seven in the morning with a Coke and a Biology book, sitting on the front steps. Where would I sit without them?

Night, I cannot take the people. French dictionary in lap. Couples pass.

Days pass.

I've hurt her. We are honest (blunt). There's little time, and it dissolves on the stairs. I must leave, I have forgotten my watch and I don't want to be late for curfew again.

It's fun to load your bookbag with your Physics and Diff Cal books and slam it against the steps a few times. I recommend it.

I lie on top of the stairs, resting. It's hot if I cared. I recommend that too, but not with other people please.

The tumult recedes.

pictures, a big joke, sprawl across them.

Wind cuts, and cleans. Proportions are correct again. On the steps, there is no name for myself. I'm not there often. Only when I must be with myself.

We walk away. There is something deep and unnamed that I feel for her.

These things seldom have names.

The image burns in me: the long steps, darkness, street lamps. I return, again and again to face the world anew.