My Office Door

August 1, 2001

My Office Door - Poetry of the Times

grew in calm country
where silence can't be traded for silver.
Raised with a wooden heart,
impenetrable as a mirror,
it can be brushed by the back of a hand
to open like an owl's wing.
Locked tight, hinges cry
when it's kicked
or punched by sweaty fists.
A priest who hears confession,
patients cross
its immaculate threshold
for a doctor's blessing.
And in moments of discontent,
when drilled or burdened
by pounding revelations,
my office door dreams
a life as a window,
each pane clean and translucent,
the unbearable passion of weightless light
flowing through its core like music.