the devil's footsteps

your remember
the fat man coming to see
your mother.
the smallest of children
at knee level
among the trees of
adults
and in-betweens.
he was a fireman
from the local station house
who, like a dog in heat,
kept sniffing
around the house.
seeing your mother
not as we saw her,
but as something beyond
our imagination.
to win us over,
or her, one day he
carried an armful
of ice cream, frozen
boxed gallons
that he picked up
off the street after
a truck had
collided with a car,
turning over,
spilling everything.
it wasn't until years
later, decades,
that you found out
that it was your sisters,
ten and twelve,
that caught his eye
and his charms,
seeking them out late
at night,
stepping lightly as
devils do
up the stairs to
their once safe rooms.