Tuesday, December 8, 2015


After a while wandering miles—the Speaker of this poem
can't help but notice 
that his favorite place to enter
always has a red door,
which always opens inward.

So much better!—he thinks,
than having to rear-back
and tear a new hole 
by ripping some cold stainless lever, 
and then regain his balance 
before stammering into the place like a whirlwind, 
with no time to spare, even for repairing 
the silly abrupt 
slice of his damage behind him.

By contrast, 
at this place—the whole thing always seems to begin 
by bowing.
Then, just enough, he clenches, 
then eases, then 
gives the barest little push,

and then—rejoices;
basking in the feeling 
of having been automatically ushered inside
by that last puff of his breath, into this precious
soft womb of familiar space—where he invariably feels 
his dark tired feet
have been waiting, 
upturned, since long 
before having—actually arrived there.