162

162

 

The red door pulses

as it might

for I lived there once

it stands there still

without my sense of torn loyalty

happy in it’s one eyed way

to let all-comers in

the mail, knocks and endearments

not at all sensitive to my loss

my memories  locked in the carapace

of a life slipping away

 

You felt my brush strokes

the lick of paint rising to blood red.

it was visceral. you knew me

yet now

you stand guard

like some impartial sentinel and forget

that we have shared memories

yes, memories

of how I used a plane to ease your swelling mass

when the wet weather got to you

and how you witnessed my brother Mark and I

walk out on the day of my mother’s burial

and back for a desultory wake

so now it bothers me

that you

never really knew my knock

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s