Personal Space
Oct 6 2010


The doorbell rarely rings
since it’s been fixed.
There used to be hard knocking
muffled voices,
the screen door
slapping closed.
Sometimes, a face
pressed against the glass
squinting in,
as if they knew
something was there,
a deeper shadow
holding its breath.

No one goes door-to-door, anymore.
Selling subscriptions.
Man-handling vacuums
with hoses, attachments,
a handful of dirt
tossed on the floor.
Except, that is, for the nicely dressed Witness
beaming with well-scrubbed faith.
And the politician, of course,
who glad-hands his way
converting voters.

I have issues
with personal space --
the foot in the door,
pamphlets and tracts
shoved brusquely towards me.
Five feet
is my minimum distance,
quarantined from handshakes, hot air,
the sweat of ambition
with its perfumed scent.

The doorbell really was broken
when I moved in.
I only had it fixed
after the big announcement.
When you said, grimly
we both needed time away
a change wouldn’t hurt.
And just as you left
“who can say for sure?”