I Take The Long Way Home
Feb 21 2011


I take the long way home.
Putting off the moment
of opening the door,
when yellow light
will fan across the porch
flooding out,
and soft warm air
spill into the cool night
with its shiver of winter wetness.
Something bubbling on the stove,
a radio, murmuring.

The steps are still treacherous with ice
where melted snow re-froze
the broken gutter drips.
As usual, the key will stick
and the lock turn heavily.
The door swings in
toppling little boots like dominos,
or getting wedged
barely open.

I stop for awhile
enclosed in darkness,
watching the sky, still light
deepen from azure to indigo.
Street lights flicker to life
a block at a time,
so I can see snow
swirling in the circular glow,
a daisy-chain of snow-globes
now blacking out the sky.
And trailing behind me
on the unswept walk,
a line of footprints, that seem lost,
vacant steps
that end right here,
will not move on
without me.

I take the long way home.
With frequent stops
avoiding shortcuts
waiting to walk
until the signal gives certain permission.
A green unblinking Cyclops
enforcing order,
and I willingly submit.

And eventually, make my way in,
the kitchen dark
the vestibule empty
the air, still heavy
with badly burnt toast.
In the small hours of this morning
that seems so long ago;
standing at the sink
scraping off coal black crust,
and eaten cold.