For years I’ve played it
safe or so you’ve said,
bolting shut the windows
when it’s sunny,
turning off the news
before the weather,
never-ever risking
I’ll be hurt.
And why wouldn’t I ?
I save on 3-ply tissues
if I do ; in fact, I don’t have to
buy another box,
with its forgettable
print of feathers,
its stagnant, ocean
blue—
as if for a guppy
with nowhere to go,
the never-ending hours
of ennui—that a bowl of glass
will give, never mind
the parrot’s proverbial
cage—gilded or otherwise—
its voice unheard
and wings which cannot
fly,
like the woman down the
lane
whom we think is
agoraphobic,
when it’s the opposite
that’s true,
knocking upon the wood of
her weighty door—
no, not from the porch’s
welcome mat
of you’ve finally made it home,
but from the mudless, sheepskin
rug that’s on the inside,
the fervent rap of knuckles
on what once
was the pulse of a tree,
begging all the world
to let her out.
Andreas Gripp
November 25, 2024
RF Image
Comments