The Wrong Way Home in  General   

All night a door floated down the river.
It tried to remember little incidents of pleasure
from its former life, like the time the lovers
leaned against it kissing for hours
and whispering those famous words.
Later, there were harsh words and a shoe
was thrown and the door was slammed.
Comings and goings by the thousands,
the early mornings and late nights, years, years.
O they've got big plans, they'll make a bundle.
The door was an island that swayed in its sleep.
The moon turned the doorknob just slightly,
burned its fingers and ran,
and still the door said nothing and slept.
At least that's what they like to say,
the little fishes and so on.
Far away, a bell rang, and then a shot was fired.

By James Tate

Tell Your Friends About It | Print This Poem

Comments

You should be logged in to be able to leave comments

Other poems by James Tate:

• A Knock On The Door
• Days of Pie and Coffee
• Dream On
• Goodtime Jesus
• Head of a White Woman Winking
• Like A Scarf
• Loyalty
• More Later, Less The Same
• My Felisberto
• My Great Great Etc. Uncle Patrick Henry
• Never Again The Same
• Non-Stop
• Restless Leg Syndrome
• Shut Up And Eat Your Toad
• Success Comes To Cow Creek
• The Definition of Gardening
• The New Ergonomics
• The Wrong Way Home
• Thinking Ahead To Possible Options And A Worst-Cas