please use other door

I make a point of avoiding

back entrances

side doors

and alternate routes into buildings

maybe it's my innate fear

of getting in trouble. 

of somehow mistaking one door

for another;

being somewhere

I'm not supposed to be. 

(and really, what would happen?

self-deprecating laugh---reddening cheeks--apology---door closed---life goes on)

or perhaps it's my tendency to

barrel headlong into situations,

to face everything straight on. 

I detest all that is sneaking

and passive aggressive and implied. 

subtleties do not impress me. 

beating around the bush (or walking around the building) is not my style. 

or, perhaps it is the simple

pride buried deep within my chest. 

avoiding the moment of embarrassment. 

because what is more humiliating than confidently striding up to a door,

self-assuredly pulling the handle--

only to find it locked?

all your vanity and self-possession

left with you

abruptly outside

in the cold. 

Restin' Peace

it's going to take more time to let this die

it was and is inevitable--

though you find it unnecessary--

it makes sense. 

you, older, more world-wise,

less soft. 

me, young, inexperienced (almost wholly)

you kissed me in your basement

urgently, as if it was

in spite of yourself 

(I taste the spite)

I was just happy to be kissed--

to feel pretty again (after a long draught of insecurity)
 

and there it was. 

irreversible. 

(not that to you it amounted to enough to necessitate being reversible

...until perhaps the side effects showed up)

this perfect imbalance 

you, so strongly deemphasizing 

(it meant nothing more than animal instinct)

me, almost comically overemphasizing

(it meant too much, emotions stampeding in)

nothing can exist so lopsided. 

in forty years, who knows who I'll have kissed

whose lips will have grazed and graced mine--

this clash of your regrettable momentary indisgression 

and my uncalled for reverence will be

less than a memory

if anything at all. 

but as it stands,

you are boy number three

and hold the title of

Most Recently Kissed. 

I don't ask a lot. 

just a quiet understanding

patience with the grieving process.
and maybe some respect for the dead.

drivers hymn

the road, just visible as an idea

or the phantom of an idea--

more of a suggestion of a road

illuminated by two feeble headlights--

stretches unknowingly, unforeseeably on. 

the truck ahead follows its own path,

leaving in its wake a cigarette

bouncing off the pavement; 

a swirling trail of sparks dancing urgently

on the road-- then passed. 

fireflies sparkle in the cornfields; earthly

stargazing made possible-- 

an old barn stands patiently among the constellations. 

the drone of the engine is the only sound

save the occasional gust of wind 

rolling through the corn, across fields

around houses, buffeting the car-- 

a gentle reminder to keep alert--

those unspoken, invisible ditches aren't 

too far or too hard to find. 

the drive itself uneventful, monotonous

yet peaceful. even comforting. 

those twinkling fireflies and old 

diesel trucks rattling past 

allow an understanding of the 

timelessness of the road; 

of roads traveled long before. 

roads yet to be traveled. 

the destination not important

as much as the getting there--

this endless temporary journey

down a darkened road only visible to

those with its memory still silhouetted

in their tired eyes.