The Opened Door

The Opened Door

A severe cold this winter.
When he looked outside
He could see blades of ice
Hanging from the side of the house.
He always sat in the same chair.
He started sitting in this chair ten summers ago.
He sat and listened for her knock.
He would recognize her knock,
For it was a soft, timid, gentle knock.
He waited; he grew older and older.
On this the coldest day of the year,
He heard a knock.
It was a loud and bold knock.
It could not be her knock.
He would not answer.
He saw an eye peeping
Through a slant in the blind.
It was her bright green eye.
He ran to the door, opened it.
She rushed by, pushed him outside,
slammed the door
In his face.
She locked the door.
He was outside, in his shirt sleeves,
Out in the falling snow.
He knocked and knocked,
A loud, bold knock,
But no one answered.
He peeped through the slant,
Saw her bright green eyes.

Duane Locke

Posted over on 3rd Muse Poetry Journal