Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Ungrateful

The front door is heavy
Sturdy and oak.
From the outside,
it opens easily enough.
Getting in was never the problem.

His knees lock in the silence
Dead bolts, rusted with disuse
when he stands to greet me.
No words.
Silence. Expectation.

She’s coming down the stairs,
around the corner.
I can see her clearly
before she comes into view:

Skin now in need
of spackle and paint

and dull locks of hair
the exact shade
of the tarnished silver service
I could never find time to polish.