I’ve left the country
and my keys
In our apartment
In my escape.
I’ve forfeited the surprise
The sensual, dark, mysterious entry.
The fact is
(after all these weeks)
you will have to be up
Or
Wake up and
let me in.
I left inspired, home-ragged and Joey called.
Pining for something, someone, frustrated.
You knew this
Still you packed me
With a full belly
Hair grease, bacon on chin
You let me go.
Now, who will be waiting?
(An orchestra of stinging questions buzzes in my chest)
Will the singing woman and the humming friend,
Wag tail, spread, lick, rock, embrace?
Will the bookshelf stand bare, fertile
Beckoning my gifts?
Who will be waiting
Banged or straight ?
Blonde, black, or blue ?
Bespectacled or not ?
leashed or free?
Clean or true?
Will forgiveness stand by
Will understanding kiss the
unshaven cheek, the salt powdered shank?
No. Fury and brimstone
Dirty dishes
And fallen refrigerator magnets
(Maybe)
The street is a voyage
The building a barbican.
Who will be waiting?
I buzz,
Wait, then remember it’s broken.
