Quiet Door (poem)

Quiet, the door forgot what a knock is

and I learn not to judge
or honk my horn in impatience especially
on busy roads
under construction
I am writing

Sometime today, eye lids lift
and elevators lift people
escalators lift thought to words
without the batting of an eyelash

circumference unnoticed
its currency
in silence
between words

“When can I go into the supermarket
and buy what I need
with my good looks?” Allen Ginsberg wrote
in America

close eyes, repose
a gift of quiet light
quiet sight
a wakeful sleep breathing, meditate

the pillow will carry thoughts later tonight
For this I am grateful
(to rest)

While awake, who is carrying thoughts now
when I am too tired to carry them?

I must confess
I drop thought

thoughts fall
and strike the ground
making a noise, not a song
a distraction to people!

This happens when
I am tired
and carry my head
as a tree branch after an icestorm
weighed down towards the ground
before sunlight and warmth
repair gravity
with loss of weight

the trees and a gilded memory of a lover
tend to this affliction


I tend to it

and the tree and gilded lover description is
romanticize love for myself

or it is incomparably both
and being compared, I grow tired!

Will I remember this?
Will I effortlessly know this like breathing
or opening my eyes, or doing laundry and eating
M&Ms without thought
as I press the start button
on the washing machine?

I have proven to myself
I am capable
of forgeting
of what a knock on a door sounds like
or how the sound of a horn
on a busy street with construction
is some how me
in the distance

grocery stores are compassionate
elevators are compassionate
escalators are compassionate
potato chips with tasty salt are compassionate

When will I be the hand rail of an escalator
or the button a person pushes on the elevator
to travel up or down on a mercurial whim?

When will I be as compassionate as a potato chip
with tasty salt
that caresses a suffering souls tongue?
















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