Knock

Knock


CL Bledsoe


If that had been a knocking at my door
and not kids tossing firecrackers at
the cracking upholstery
of the street
I would rise like steam waft
to the door open and smile and have
something terribly clever
to say
about the nature of time the way it
bunches like curtains
in the hand
of an agoraphobic god perhaps something
about sorrow
the empty aching bucket a soul becomes
through lack of use or too much
like a discarded light bulb broken at one end
and letting water seep in
like an empty womb of light

Maybe it will be a her and I can tell her
about the dream of popcorn I just had
whole potential lives exploding outward
into something like fuzzy paper
segue it into asking her if she’d like
to see a movie
tonight
and afterwards though I don’t know how
to dance
we could go dancing
like in old movies romantic flying
over the floor
like a steam cleaner
though to be honest
I’ve never seen any of those movies
just clips moments before I realized
what they were
and changed the channel


CL Bledsoe

Posted over on Writing From Scars