Turning a key
A slow revolution
of rusty hinges,
screaming me a warning
upon thoughtless ears.
Slow and silent steps
along a cold hardwood floor,
as snow skitters inside.
The wooden chair on the floor,
the rope hanging from the ceiling.
And the tape rewinds.
I drift out with the winds
and meander up the dusted walkway.
I turn the key,
Peering inside I see the chair,
upright by the kitchen table.
In it I sit,
drinking my morning coffee.
Outside a cold and foggy window
the rain is pouring upside down.
On the wall sits the shadow of a willow,
like you sliding on your nightgown.
The floor creaks under bare feet,
and fire has become cinders.
Sweat has soaked through the sheet
with dreams of a former winter.
My heart is full of holes
patched with poorly applied plaster.
My mind is full of lost souls
that can’t remember the sound of laughter.
I hope when I reach heaven’s gate
God will forgive me for showing up late.