Presidents Day

Snowed in
and the power napping
like a fed puppy. No place to go
but each other: experimenting
with monogamy.
Wax shadows waiting for us
to decide again
with two sizes to keep warm.
A cautious landing
in the white garden globe and
crow’s breath -
our snowman
still single.

Before Knocking

I studied the door
and the brown paint flaking
under the eyehole glazed with murk

and the shavings of interior light
strained through the friction of an heirloom lamp,
pink roses on a porcelain base.

While I tap the wood,
patio squirrels conceal acorns as
a flashlight child with a diary after bedtime

who only puts hearts above
each i in the name of that one
classmate in Room 15.

I’ll stay until the coffee cools and the hammer strikes
the brass gong of the standing clock,
positioned just so in the entry,

that to read its face and know
the erosion of time
requires one foot through the open door.

October 9, 2025