turning the key
the symbol of modern virility
its tumblers were supposed to ground you, make
you somehow more appealing
like a strong jaw-line

it has become an occupation, a charge
a bottomless mirror of what is missing
a desire to placate inanimate masters
to bring to its softer places
simple joy …simple

rain shows up as static distraction
reducing gravity to the current distant port
as wireless wisps of goodbye breathe
open mouthed and loosely woven
the lock taps you on the shoulder

destination awaits with open arms
this stage entrance is turnkey
a world of finger sandwiches
mornings of hot tears away
the front door is weary

weary of the four-poster snacks
the ego, the silence
the technical commitment
its hinges are longing, and they groan
a beggar’s song

you stammer your promises
a fresh coat of paint
guilty roses at best
it awaits an eagerness—an anticipation
on both sides of its threshold

© Tom Watters  3/29/06