Stairs

There's people on my stairs, fucking.
Call me square, but isn't that one
thing done behind curtains, doors,
in "private"? Not between floors,
wearing out the carpet, bare-arsed,
moaning, like a couple cripples fell
on a tricky step, and got mixed up.
I must be out, they think, asleep,
absent or indisposed, insignificant
as far as late night shag consideration
goes. Well fuck it, its my house too.
I step out my room, grin; "I thought
this was a staircase, not one of those
sex shows." They jump, stutter, and
blushing, scrabble for their clothes.