Under The Staircase Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

The staircase had been built
by craftsmen of great skill
that had endured the strife
when Martin Luther nailed
his thoughts onto the church..

Beneath the oaken steps,
there was a hiding place
quite dark and musty
and away from prying eyes.

It was the birthplace of
what I would call today
carnal infatuation.
Do not, I say, ask for details,

I'd blush with extra histamine
images from the time
have always been suppressed,
though they will never fade

for any of the keen participants.
But for some forty years at least
I used to think we were unique.
Today I truly know we are.