Behind Closed Doors
The children of happy fathers make no sense to me. I have known no such peace. What is it to live in a world where there is a man who likes you, someone who approves? I feel like my chin would have always been out there to see, no ducking, no need to hide, had there been a good man to whom I could turn. The dark circles under the eyes of my soul make me old, old and different from those kids, mere children, safe in a home with a happy man whose joy it is to be their Dad.
Dance cheek to cheek with your muse when you can
Detail days seem like lost soulless days.
I sort the piles of endless junk mail
Catch up on bills, letters, laundry.
I don’t leave the house but in someway
I feel like I’m not in my home.
It’s like a day of pulling out all the needles,
Splinters and thorns which accumulate
Under my skin from rough weeks and road rash.
I steel myself to the pain of relief and rescue.
Cleared counters, emptied baskets, finished worry list
Leave me with that newly moved in feel.
Piles overwhelm me but sometimes details define me.