Part I: Around
If I have to be funny
at the front door
I will hear the screen door out back
slam.
Peering in the blue draped windows
only makes you
nervous, makes you
shut the blinds.
If I knock too hard
you run upstairs.
If I knock too soft
you pretend
you do not hear.
If I ring (ring, ring, ring)
the bell,
well,
that is what you waited for
and you don’t trust that
anymore.
I will slip
a piece of parchment paper
in the brass slot
where mail used to drop
(rules change;
curbside box;
slot remains).
One word written.
One word only.
In watery sepia, loopy hand scrolled
Baroque stroke lines and curls.
One word.
One word only.
Part II: There
I’ll wait across the street.
In the little public park.
Underneath the yellow willow
where the old men stop to rest.
I’ll face the other way
so I won’t see you approach.
I’ll wait until it’s dark,
your shadow won’t give you away.
I’ll wait until it’s quiet.
I’ll wait until you’re calm.
The echoes from the sun have died,
and everything is still.
They all tried to get inside.
But I know why you are frightened.
I don’t need to see your curtains
except from here, across the street.
I’ll wait until the moon grows soft
with sleepiness and stories.
I’ll wait until I feel your hand
in mine as you sit down.
Part III: Here
Tomorrow they’ll see the
crack
pester push
maybe not even wait.
But nobody’s home.
Nobody’s home.
Empty shell.
The princess prize taken.
Stolen by silence, by darkness, by ink.
Dust ruffles, wainscotting, sheers and an end table.
All useless. Waiting
for a mistress now
fled.
No clue, no evidence.
Where? Why abandoned?
Just one word
on parchment
one only,
"mercy."