NO PASSAGE

E-Mail   by Joseph Burgeson   Bio/Address

I hate that door.
It's open when I'm out and locked when I'm in.
Sometimes I kick it.
Cold steel, dull, immutable, indifferent.
Not like wood.
Wood has heart and resiliency,
resounding with its own natural character
when struck.
Like a wooden door,
I was once alive.
And, too,
I am set upon a threshold,
neither going in or coming out.
My life passes through me
and doesn't take me with it.
I hate myself that door.
Sometimes I kick it.

More Poems by Burgeson this issue:

A LETTER

TIME OUT

REGENERATION

MACHINATIONS

BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION

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