corndog_
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Sep 23, 2010
- Posts
- 369
Doors, Three of Them
I stood outside your wooden door all night
studying the grain. It was a sepia river
of images passing. I saw
a small bear, one paw upturned; and a face
with sleepy eyes that seemed to say
“The bed is warm. Put down your book.”
::
This door groans
on its hinges, has scuff-
marks from heels and
corners of boxes. This
door has four coats
of paint revealed in chips
and a brass knob patina’d
by a thousand palms.
This door demands
to be opened.
::
At last a door that leads
nowhere; no more furniture
and fascination. I can’t look
at a mountain or moosehead
or say “Persia is the origin
of anything worth eating”
or touch the bust
of a Scottish king. Too much
scrutiny. I want a space with nothing
to distract us, and a door
we can lock from within.
I stood outside your wooden door all night
studying the grain. It was a sepia river
of images passing. I saw
a small bear, one paw upturned; and a face
with sleepy eyes that seemed to say
“The bed is warm. Put down your book.”
::
This door groans
on its hinges, has scuff-
marks from heels and
corners of boxes. This
door has four coats
of paint revealed in chips
and a brass knob patina’d
by a thousand palms.
This door demands
to be opened.
::
At last a door that leads
nowhere; no more furniture
and fascination. I can’t look
at a mountain or moosehead
or say “Persia is the origin
of anything worth eating”
or touch the bust
of a Scottish king. Too much
scrutiny. I want a space with nothing
to distract us, and a door
we can lock from within.
