Close

February 1, 1998

The Door Has Closed

I.


The door has closed;


your house is dark;


the curtains drawn.


I know you are in


there, hiding


in an inside room


with no windows.


I knock


but you do not open.


I ask for entry


but you will not receive me.


How can you be so cruel?


II.


It is you who are cruel,


I let you in to be my friend


but you


never thought me good enough.


Even now,


you hold tools in your hands,


your rough hands,


brutal tools, tools to tear down:


hammers to break me


and bars to pry


my treasures from my house.


Some of your work


was welcome,


but you went too far,


and I am hurt,


and afraid that you


will leave me


homeless.


 III.


It is true.


I have utterly destroyed


some of your house.


You can mend the walls;


paint over the damage;


sit on the broken chair


and sing loudly


to drown out my song.


But you will know


deep down


that your house


is a prison.


It is true.


I would leave you


nothing.


And having nothing,


there would be


no reason to stay


where you are.


And nothing to keep you


from living


with me.


William E. Rushman, February 1998

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