Front Door
November 21st, 2007
I leave my front door open every night.
And mornings,
with showy dismay,
sweep dead leaves
& crawling things
from carpet’s clutch & cling –
stowaways on midnight winds –
scold myself & double-lock the door.
Meanwhile muddy footprints
– giant cigar stubs,
half-scabbed sores –
pock the living room floor.
I settle on the couch,
turn on t.v.,
and carefully keep my eyes
from flirting down –
a tightrope walker
denying all that ground.
